


Home in a Handbasket

by lori (zakhad)



Series: Captain and Counselor [51]
Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-06
Updated: 2010-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-05 22:15:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 51,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/46575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zakhad/pseuds/lori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Picard family comes down to Earth and starts the process of adjusting to promotions, new job, new school, new classmates, and new expectations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home in a Handbasket

**Adolescence is like cactus. ~ Anais Nin**

\-------------

_Dear Isha,_

We've only been here a few weeks, but it feels like months. It's weird how time seems to flow differently here. Pierre thinks it has something to do with actually having days and nights. I don't really care. I just want to feel normal again. Maman says we'll get used to living here, that people move on and off ships or away to other planets, and that transitions may be difficult but they're not impossible. She said it's part of growing up and we need to be willing to work through changes.  I just think it would be easier if Papa were here, too.

I miss our school. I miss you and the others, and being able to go anywhere with you on the holodeck. We don't have one at the school we're going to - I guess that has something to do with the power grid being inadequate. Someone said there would be field trips to public holosuites, sometimes. The material they're giving us is different. Some of it I already learned, some of it I'm not sure why they want us to know it.

I hope you like your new school. What's London like? San Francisco is odd but fun. There's so much to see and do, and some parts of the city are well-kept old buildings from the past few centuries, others are all metal and trans-aluminum. There's this one neighborhood where people have built houses that match the landscaping, so instead of seeing buildings you see hills or vine-covered walls with doors. Maman said we'd take a tour sometime.

Maybe we can talk direct, or visit. We'll probably be in France sometimes, so it's not like we won't be so far apart. We'll have a lot to talk about.

Yves

\-------------

  
"Mrs. Picard, your son falls asleep in class. He nods off occasionally, but yesterday he actually fell asleep. Is there some reason he's so exhausted?"

Yves had already explained everything to his mother after school the previous day, so he had no fear of her response to Mrs. Gramere's opening salvo. In the empty classroom, things sounded loud; Maman's chair creaked, the only indicator of movement. Maman had come before school, before she had to be in her own classroom at the Academy. Early morning sunlight angled through the wide window and put sharp shadows of desks and chairs on the gray tile.

Maman smiled, didn't look at him, and gestured as she spoke. "My son isn't falling asleep. He's trying to block out the emotions of everyone around him. Privacy is of great importance to Betazoids, and we all learn to preserve it very early, as soon as we begin to develop our talents."

The teacher was immediately alarmed and staring at each of them in turn. "Shouldn't he be in a different class? I had thought that telepaths - "

"He's an empath, Mrs. Gramere. It's not the same. It's true that on Earth the tendency is to put telepaths in a class with a telepathic instructor, but Yves is not able to hear the thoughts of others, only their emotions."

"I wasn't aware - I had thought that his father . . .. I wasn't aware that Picard could be a Betazoid name." Mrs. Gramere glanced down at the padd she held. "There's nothing in his file about this."

"My husband is human. Hybrids tend to be empaths. I'm sorry, I did intend to speak with you before now, but the Academy is also in its first week of classes. I hope that this won't spread to the other children. Yves should be allowed to tell others when he decides to, if he does. He doesn't make a habit of using his abilities to take advantage."

Yves watched his mother, admiring the slim uniformed neatness of her as compared to his teacher's bulkier frame in loose floral-print blouse and slacks. Mrs. Gramere's hair was blonde and brown, without a hint of gray; Maman had a few streaks of gray showing and didn't hide it.

"I don't know," Mrs. Gramere said, and beneath it he detected the sliding, nested emotions of someone trying to decide. "Perhaps the other children have a right to -"

"Mrs. Gramere," Maman exclaimed, in a voice Yves had heard many times - a firm call to attention, a demand. "You think that the other children have a right to know he knows exactly how they feel all the time? What about my son's right to privacy? He respects their privacy - I am here now because of that. I know exactly what he was doing because I taught him how. He wanted to block out the emotions of those around him so he could concentrate on your class. I had been given to understand that the philosophy here is to treat all students with equal respect and equal expectations. If my son is to be singled out from the rest and marked as someone to be wary of, perhaps I should take him elsewhere."

"Well," Mrs. Gramere began. "Well."

Yves stared at Mrs. Gramere's face, settled into the familiar lines of vague disapproval, and knew what was beneath the façade. His teacher didn't want him there. Maman put a hand on his arm, acknowledging both what he sensed and how he felt about it.

"I see," Maman said calmly. "I shall have to find a teacher with more concern for students than her own preference for predictability and order. Come with me, Yves."

"Mrs. Picard, I don't understand." Mrs. Gramere jumped up and nearly followed them. "I didn't say - "

"You don't have to. I can sense it well enough. I can tell that this is not something you are able to accept and I would never wish to force you -"

"Mrs. Picard, you give me no chance to explain," the teacher cried, losing the shifting decision-making emotions and the reluctance -- now she felt cheated. "I will admit that the prospect of having an - an empath in my class is somewhat - but you must remember I've only just heard of it. I've never had a Betazoid in my class before. They always go down to Mr. Fral's class. I hope that you understand, teaching is not only my career, it's who I am, and if any student of mine would benefit from a transfer to another class I would arrange it, but you've not given me a fair chance."

Maman rested a hand in between Yves' shoulders. He dropped his hand away from the door control and looked up at her; she smoothed that stubborn curl of hair back from his forehead and looked back at the teacher.

"Would you like to stay, Yves? Would you feel comfortable here?"

Yves could feel the teacher's hope, the sliding sensation of her uncertainty. "I'll try it for a while." The teacher's uncertainty settled. Now she was determined. Which was precisely what Maman had wanted, most likely. Her subtle way of forcing the teacher to make a decision to try reminded him how persuasive she could be.

"Thank you for your time, Mrs. Gramere. He'll be back momentarily with his books."

Yves walked with his mother to the small flitter waiting in front of the school, alone in a wide spot where others would be dropping off kids soon. "I don't think she likes me," Yves said distantly.

"Teachers and starship captains are not there for liking. I think she'll try. If this doesn't work there are other options." Maman touched the passenger-side panel. It read her prints, opened the door, and closed it again after she retrieved his book bag.

"Like what?"

"We'll talk about it if it's necessary." She smiled, but something in her expression told him she didn't like the options she was thinking about. Something in her emotions told him why. She was right, sometimes people developed particular patterns of emotion when thinking about specific things or people.

"It has something to do with Papa. Doesn't it?"

Her smile vanished. She measured him for a moment, one eyebrow raised. "You're nearly sixteen. I suppose I shouldn't expect you to go along with my reassurances so blindly."

"What about him?"

"I need to go. Your sister should be ready by now, and I'll have to drop her off before I can go to my own class." Maman kissed his cheek. "We'll talk later."

Mrs. Gramere waited in her classroom, still standing at the end of her desk where they'd left her. She smiled as he came in but still felt doubt and anxiety. "We have a few minutes before class. Why don't we spend them talking for a bit?"

Yves shrugged and stood there with his book bag hanging from his right shoulder. "Sure."

"Your mother is a Starfleet officer - a captain. And your father is. . . ?"

"Captain Jean-Luc Picard. He'll be an admiral in a month or so, when he gets back from Alliance borders."

"I see." Another smile, this time less nervous and more genuine - and ingratiating. Perhaps she imagined having a famous captain in to speak to the class. Tom Glendenning had already warned him that might happen, as news of his father's promotion was being used liberally in the media. "Have you spent any time aboard his ship?"

"I grew up there."

"And now you've come home to be with your mother."

"She was his first officer until last month. She finally accepted a promotion - it came with accepting the teaching position at the Academy."

Mrs. Gramere's smile faded. She looked at the floor, leaning against the end of her desk. "Yves, you could have told me yesterday what the problem was."

"I guess. I'd rather the other kids didn't know until I got to know them better, Mrs. Gramere. It wasn't you."

"Well, we'll just start over, shall we? I hope you like it here at Mercy Hills."

Behind him, the distant noises of kids in the halls echoed through the open door. "Yeah. I hope so."

\-------------

After the last class, Yves found himself in the crush of kids anxious to get out of the school building, Malcolm struggling to walk alongside him and forced to dodge others. "Hey, want to come over? I have a new game - Starship Battle, latest version. I downloaded some great scenarios from Fednet."

Yves almost rolled his eyes. After all the simulations he'd participated in on the holodeck, the game Malcolm was talking about seemed amateurish. He'd seen the 3D game consoles in the store, when his mother went to shop for a house computer, and with Geordi along to make recommendations, the house system they now had made anything Malcolm had look inconsequential.

"Maybe this weekend. I'm supposed to find my sister and get out front. Mom's having guests tonight. Want to come over? She won't mind. She just wants me to put in an appearance, y'know. Old family friends."

"Sure. Around seven?"

A quick calculation to deduce that he meant nineteen hundred hours, and Yves nodded. "I'll see you then."

Malcolm parted ways at the top of the school steps, waving, and Yves made his way through the thinning crowd while looking for Amy's red ponytail. She found him first, appearing at his side as if she'd beamed in.

[Where's Mom?]

"Maman is probably waiting in the flitter," Yves said. Before he could say anything else Amy darted away toward the line of nearly-identical silver vehicles. As he caught up Amy was leaning in the passenger door chattering about someone named Hailey.

" - be home by ten, and Hailey's mom can bring me, she said, so I won't be walking or anything."

"Perhaps some other time, Amy. When I have time to meet them. We have guests tonight." Maman sounded tired; Yves could tell she was frustrated and felt like snapping at Amy. His sister, so wound up and focused on what she wanted, probably wasn't paying attention; her empathy tended to be easily clouded by her own widely-varying emotions.

"Front or back, Amia." Yves grabbed her book bag and tossed it into the back seat floorboard, making Cordelia yelp when it hit her feet. "Sorry, Cord. Didn't see you."

Amy whirled around, cheeks red. "Just hold on a minute!"

[Maman isn't in the mood for this. She's got something going on. Think of someone else for once, already.] He made it loud, focused, imagining his target to be the center of her forehead, just inches away. She actually winced.

Cordelia shoved the front seat, folded it forward, and leaned out. "I'm hungry! Can we go?"

Amy frowned, her entire forehead wrinkled, and tossed her ponytail as she stepped into the back and folded herself in next to the twins. Yves eased the front seat back and dropped his bag between his feet as he settled. He glanced at the groups of students milling about the drop-off area; some of them were watching casually, with practiced indifference. Just as most of his classmates always did. He had yet to really talk to any of them, other than Malcolm.

After the door shut and they were silently moving away from the school, maneuvering between pedestrians and turning down a side street to avoid a knot of traffic at the corner, Maman glanced at him, curious. He shrugged. She sighed and set the autopilot to take them home.

"I can see we'll have to get a bigger vehicle. I'm sorry about the crowding."

"No problem," Cordelia said. "If Pierre would get his elbow out of my kidney."

"That's my bag. My elbow's over here," Pierre grumbled. Surly Jean-Pierre and his bluntness. Funny how much Cordelia put up with that.

Amy just sat looking out the tiny triangular window to her right. Yves watched her in the middle mirror for a bit; she never wavered. The familiar stubborn firmness of jaw and high angle of her chin told him, even if he couldn't sense it, that she had decided this was unjust imprisonment, her request had been reasonable, and she was being treated badly.

Yves looked at their mother again, studying her weary face until she noticed and met his gaze. "How was school?" she asked, as if nothing was wrong and Amy weren't inflicting her ire on all of them.

"Hardly anyone knows I exist yet. Malcolm wanted me to come over and play games. I asked him over instead."

"How come he can have his friends over and I can't see mine?" Amy exclaimed, leaning forward, her whine too sharp in Yves' left ear.

"You didn't ask if your friend could come over. You know we're having guests tonight, Amy. I'll compromise with you - stay long enough to greet our friends and serve appetizers, and you can go see your friend, if her mother is willing to pick you up or Yves is willing to drop you off. And the usual homework policy applies."

"I don't have anything due tomorrow. I'll do all my reading over the weekend. Yves?" Her arms snaked around Yves' shoulders, her fingers meeting over his chest and her hair brushing his ear as she put her chin on his left shoulder. "Would you? Please?"

"It'll cost you."

The arms slipped away and she fell back, almost colliding with Cordelia, who squealed and bumped against Pierre. "What?"

"I've got yard duty this weekend. Leaves, watering, weeding - "

"All right."

"This must be some friend," Yves said, glancing at Maman.

"Hailey is the first real friend I've made. And Jennifer will be there, she lives next door to Hailey. Stop it!" The twins were shoving each other and bickering over seat space, and Cordelia wasn't minding where her elbow went.

"Jean-Pierre, Cordelia," Maman said sternly, and the wrestling stopped. "We definitely need a larger vehicle."

"We could always get another and keep this one," Yves said. "Then I could take us to school while you went to work, and save time for everyone."

Maman eyed him with raised eyebrow and a wry twist of the lip. "That's one possible scenario, I suppose."

Yves shrugged. "I had to try."

The house looked smaller from the front than it was. Yves had seen the pictures when Papa had submitted his choices for Maman's approval. This house differed from the others in its design; from above, one could see that there were two wings at right angles to the living area and a yard in the center, with a tall wall closing in the back. The garage they were pulling into was an addition, a block attached to the southwestern corner of the house. Once the flitter halted, the doors opened automatically.

"Wash hands, change clothes," Maman called after the twins as they hurried into the house. Both of them looked like they'd rolled around the playground. From the open door came barking, and the family dog trotted out. "Hello, Fidele."

"Good afternoon," he said, sitting down precisely two feet from Maman's toes. Yves scratched behind the dog's ears out of habit as he headed for his room, dropped off his bag, and went down the hall to the bathroom.

As he suspected, there was little to correct - he hadn't been to phys ed yet as it wouldn't start until next week due to some issue with the instructor. His self-inspection in the bathroom mirror lasted long enough for him to see that his hair was combed down and his clothes remained in decent condition, then the twins burst in demanding use of the sink. Yves left Cordelia trying to convince Jean-Pierre to wash his face.

The door chime went off as he came into the living room from the kid's wing, as it was known, and since Maman was nowhere to be seen he went to answer. When the white tritanium door slid open, Tom Glendenning stepped up on the threshold.

"Hey, Yves," he said with his usual lazy ease. His blue eyes swung left, his gaze traveling over Yves' shoulder. "Nice carpet."

"We're waiting for Papa to get here to choose furniture and new carpet for this part of the house. There's chairs in the dining room. Hi, Aunt Bee."

Beverly shoved Tom gently out of her way and threw her arms around Yves. "You're taller. As tall as your father, I think. It's good to see you!"

"Come on in. Is Lora here?"

"She couldn't make it. She's in the middle of the first week of the semester - medical school isn't easy, and absences only make it harder." Beverly must have just done her hair; the gray he remembered from last visit was gone, its former bright red restored.

He led them into the dining room to the long oak table and realized it wasn't big enough - there were only six chairs. "We still need to put in the leaves," he said as he pulled back chairs to make room. Tom helped him pull apart the table and bring two leaves from the bottom of the linen closet near the patio door.

"You have enough room for another table," Beverly exclaimed, looking up at the twin chandeliers glittering overhead. "Planning on entertaining?"

Yves was about to answer when Maman came in from the other hall, her hair loose over her bare shoulders. She wore a variegated green dress with dropped sleeves. "Probably. Hello, Bev, it's so good to see you." Beverly hurried to greet her with an affectionate hug.

Tom swooped in as they parted and caught her up in a rough embrace. "Dee! You look wonderful."

"Thank you," she said, stepping back as he let go. She smiled fondly, and genuinely felt that way, though his roughness had irritated her.  "Where is Amy?" she asked Yves.

"Probably waiting for the twins to finish in the bathroom. Cordelia was trying to get Pierre to wash." Yves fastened the last catch on the underside of the table and returned to the closet for a tablecloth. As he tossed the length of plain white linen over the varnished oak, he noticed Maman's expression. She was thinking about something and feeling sad, with the pinch of pain she usually experienced when Papa was far away.

He went to the patio door, closing the closet as he passed, and pressed the control. The trans-aluminum slid open with a neat hiss. "Amy! Food!" Yves shouted, aiming approximately at the small bathroom window visible between branches of a tree.

"Leave the door open. That breeze is nice," Maman said. "Would you care for some wine, Tom?" She crossed to the sideboard, and as she took glasses from the overhead rack a door slammed in the distance and pounding footsteps approached. Amy, in a pair of calf-length billowing pants that were popular at the moment with girls on Earth, whipped through the dining room so fast Yves could hear the air snap through the brilliant turquoise material. She skidded through the door and dodged left into the kitchen. Probably in a hurry to get her "chore" done and leave for her friend's house, Yves guessed. Maman glared after her, while Tom and Beverly blinked in surprise. Tom had actually jumped backward out of her way.

Yves imagined Amy's smooth white forehead and dark, dark eyes, and then imagined his words coming to a needle-sharp point, aimed only at her. [Greet them, idiot!]

Amy reappeared in the door, breathing hard, flushed and dismayed. "Oh! Hi," she gasped. "I mean, hi!" Flinging her arms open, she lunged into Tom's arms. "It's good to see you!"

Yves went to Maman's side and took glasses as she poured. He gave the first two to their guests and blinked when Maman brought him one of his own with just a few swallows in it.

"Hey," Amy cried, as always demanding equal treatment. Maman held out her own half-full glass and allowed Amy one sip before taking it back. Amy made a face.

"Then don't ask for any. Are you forgetting something?" Maman smiled as the reminder sent Amy fleeing into the kitchen.

"Aren't you only fifteen?" Beverly asked, staring at Yves' glass.

"Jean-Luc has been giving him sips of wine since he was ten. He wants the children to develop well-informed palates." Something about that bothered Maman; another deep-rooted twinge of pain reached Yves, barely hitting the threshold of emotion he could sense. "What do you think?"

She meant the wine, not what he sensed, he realized after a stunned moment of staring at her. Yves sniffed, sipped, and swished before letting the wine go down his throat. "It's not as good as the last bottle of chardonnay. That's probably why Amy turned up her nose."

"I'm just not as fond of chardonnay, is that wrong, having personal preference?" Amy breezed out, pant legs drifting about, sticking out her chest to show off the tiny bumps in the skin-tight turquoise shirt. She had a platter of appetizers in each hand. "Would you care for a sandwich?"

Tom picked a tiny triangle from a platter. "If that's a sandwich, I'm a ballerina."

"I've heard that about you," Yves said, grinning. Teasing his "uncle" was a family tradition.

The door chime interrupted what showed promise of being a verbal duel, from the good-natured finger-shaking Tom was doing. Yves put his glass on the sideboard as he went through the door into the empty living room. This time, the door slid back to reveal Malcolm, grinning and eager as always.

"Hey, neat. You need furniture, I have an uncle over in Oakland who sells it." Malcolm came in and eyed the mottled gray carpeting. "He could probably get you some decent carpet, too."

"Come on, we're in here." Yves led him through and introduced everyone.

"Malcolm Reed, huh?" Tom said.

"Not related to the Malcolm Reed. It's a coincidence. My folks didn't know he existed until my history class got to early pre-Federation space exploration. But, yah, that's me." He grinned and looked from one person to the next, bouncing on his heels. "Nice house, Mrs. P."

Maman sighed softly and gave Malcolm an indulgent smile. "Thank you, Mr. Reed. Would you care for an appetizer? Something to drink?"

"I'll have what he's having," Malcolm exclaimed, his eyes following Yves' glass to his lips.

"Sorry. We don't condone underage drinking - Yves only gets a few sips in the best interests of his possible future in wine-making. He may be stuck running the family vineyard some day, after all. Amy, would you get him something?" Maman took the platters from her; she flounced into the kitchen again.

"So where's your dad?" Malcolm spoke casually, but too much so.

"On his ship. He'll be here in about a month."

Amy came back with a glass of Lesca, a popular sugary beverage that most vending machines on campus dispensed in various flavors. Malcolm thanked her. His uninterested politeness sent her mood from hopeful to irritated; she tugged her sleeves down over her wrists and went back to the kitchen.

"I'd like to meet him," Mal continued.

"Well, sure, but there's a perfectly good captain right here if you're in a hurry." Yves pointed at Tom. "He's been out of circulation for a few years but he still remembers some good stories."

"Oh, thanks," Tom exclaimed dryly. "From the old retired has-been."

"At least I didn't call you a ballerina." Yves sidled for the kitchen with the empty wine glass.

Amy was sitting on the counter near the sink, kicking the cabinets with her heels. She watched him put the glass in the sink. "My teacher wants me to invite Papa to our class," she said.

"I suppose you agreed, so you can make lots of friends." Hard to keep his voice low. Sarcasm wanted to be louder than that.

"No. I told him he should talk to Papa himself."

"Come on. We should be sociable."

Amy got herself juice to drink, and Yves replicated water for himself. By the time they returned to the group, the conversation in progress seemed to have taken an interesting turn; Malcolm stared at Beverly and Tom across the table, his drink apparently forgotten even though his fingers still gripped the glass. Maman had taken a seat at the end of the table nearest the kitchen. Yves and Amy glanced at each other and moved further down, taking the two chairs to Malcolm's right.

"It's a well-known fact that if you present an image of all things good and right, everyone will want to know the dirty secrets you're hiding," Beverly said. "We love our heroes until they drop their guard, then dig up all their past indiscretions."

"Like what?" Malcolm asked. All the adults looked at him until he fidgeted and shrugged sheepishly.

"It's not a crime to be curious." Maman sighed and shook her head. "I wished it were the first day of class, but it's not. You should ask about something else, Malcolm."

"Are there any unclassified things you could talk about?" Malcolm tilted his head, smiling. "Ever been in a battle with Romulans?"

"I don't think he can help you with your games, if that's where you're going," Yves said. "Reality tends to be a lot different. You don't control the ship with a few buttons and a roller or joystick, for instance."

"I hardly ever battled them, but I've spied on them - not recently, mind you. That was a long time ago. Back when you were a few cells in someone's - "

"Geraint Thomas!" Beverly scowled at him.

"The kid knows about human reproduction, Verly - he's what, sixteen?"

"Fifteen," Malcolm said. "Yeah, I know about that stuff. Did you ever spy on the Praetor?"

"Boys," Amy moaned, rolling her eyes. "Can I go now?"

"With a jacket. It's getting dark." Maman watched her nearly tip over her chair. "Amy's going to a friend's house for a few hours. I'm sure she would love to stay if she hadn't made a commitment."

Amy darted around the table to give Tom a peck on the cheek, threw an arm around Beverly, and whirled off again. "Bye, see you all later."

"I've been volunteered to take her," Yves said to Malcolm. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

"No problem." Malcolm turned back to Tom. "What about Klingons, have you met any?"

Yves headed for the garage, but before he made it through the living room, a hand on his arm stopped him. "I'd like you to meet them," Maman said, gripping his elbow. "If there's anything about them you don't trust, bring her home."

He almost blurted out an angry reply, probably would have asked why she didn't just take her, but she looked so weary and resigned that he only nodded. But she didn't let go.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I know it isn't fair."

"But moving in has been difficult, your new job is either more frustrating than you thought it would be or just not what you wanted, and Papa's not here to help - " He couldn't continue. Tears had gathered in her eyes, and he'd seen them before she turned away. "I'm sorry, I - "

"Yves!" Amy shouted from the garage.

Yves leaned to kiss his mother's cheek and snapped his fingers at Fidele. The dog had come inside and curled up in a corner. "Let's go."

They climbed in the car, the dog in the back seat but standing with his head between the front seats. Amy put up with the dog for four blocks, then snapped, "Sit back!"

Fidele disappeared from between the seats, where he'd been standing with his head even with Yves' shoulder. "I am sorry."

"You said Beringer Circle," Yves exclaimed accusingly, irritated by her impatience.

"It's up at the end - the big white one."

They pulled up behind a flitter, the light of street lamps gleaming on the domed silver mass of a six-passenger luxury model. Yves told Fidele to stay with theirs; the dog sat patiently on the curb and watched them go up the walk.

"You don't have to come in," Amy said, overly-pleasant and vibrating with anxiety.

"I won't. Just want to say hi."

A girl answered the door. She had dark brown hair, wore an outfit almost exactly like Amy's but for the coloration - a swirling abstract pattern of yellows and oranges - and when she saw Yves, her hazel eyes widened.

"My brother," Amy intoned. "Did you get it?"

"Sure," the girl breathed. She pulled open the door wider and Amy pushed in.

"Yves Picard. And you are?" Yves stuck out his hand.

"Hailey Sebring. Hi."

"Is your mom or dad home?"

"Good bye, Yves," Amy exclaimed, yanking off her jacket.

A woman stepped up behind Hailey. "I'm Mrs. Sebring. Did you need something?"

"I'm Yves Picard, Amy's brother. I just wanted to check on what time I should pick her up." Yves studied her quickly, counting presences in the vicinity - there were four total besides Amy. Mrs. Sebring smiled.

"Around ten would be fine. The girls should be done with their makeovers by then. Thank you for being willing to drop her off."

"I'll be back by ten. Good evening." Yves smiled and backed off the porch, then jogged back to let Fidele in the front passenger seat.

"Did you run a scan of the house?"

Fidele looked at him, panting. "I did. There is nothing out of the ordinary."

Yves turned on the autopilot and glanced out the window as the flitter left the curb. "Didn't seem like it to me, either. Home we go."

When he got back, the twins had finally emerged. Jean-Pierre sat with Tom and Malcolm at one end of the table, listening to Malcolm ask questions about Tom's adventures. Beverly had Cordelia at the other end; the two of them were munching on what was left of the appetizers and chatting about school. Fidele chose a corner and reclined nearby to observe, as usual. The only person missing was Maman. He asked, and was told she'd excused herself for a minute. When she didn't reappear, he went to the kitchen, turned right, and wandered down the other wing of the house.

The first room was the utility room, with laundry and recycling unit and in an overhead cabinet, the main core for the house computer. The second and third would be used for a library and study; right now they were full of packing crates. It was in the third that he found Maman, standing in the middle of stacks of drab brown crates with one open. He had already gone in when he realized he shouldn't have disturbed her.

She dropped whatever she held back in the crate and sighed. When she turned around she wore a smile. "All went well?"

"Amy's fine. I'm going to go get some of my homework done - Malcolm's having a good time with Tom and I have a few hours before I have to go back. I just wanted to let you know. . . ."

Maman laid a hand on his cheek, as she habitually did with her children, though not so often with him any more. "I'll be all right, Yves. It's been a long time - you probably don't remember the last time your father and I were separated for more than a week."

"I don't remember ever seeing you so tired."

She put her arms around his chest, her head on his shoulder. "When he gets here, you'll see. You've been very helpful, Yves. Thank you. I should get back to our guests." She slipped out of his arms and past him, and he couldn't help thinking she was escaping.

He glanced in the open crate. She'd been holding a small clear stasis box, which contained a large blossom. He didn't recognize the type or remember seeing the box out on a shelf. What did it mean?

Shrugging, he headed for his room. He could get his homework and work at the dining room table, where he would be able to hear what was going on. It had happened before that he'd missed a good joke and only sensed the amusement from afar. He preferred not to guess based on what he sensed, and curiosity killed this cat every time.

\-------------

_Jean-Luc,_

I hope you understand that I am only breaking the silence because I am unable to stop thinking about doing so, and the pressure is now unbearable. I hope that I do not distress you with this.

What am I saying? I know it will. But I also know that if I am enduring this, you must be suffering in similar fashion. I don't understand why it must be this way, nor is it clear why each time we are apart, it's so different. I don't remember feeling quite so empty before.

You will be very proud of our children. They are each suffering in their own way and bearing the stress well. The twins fight often, but I think it's their way of venting the tension they feel at school, and they don't seem to bear any long-standing grudges toward each other. Amy frets about clothes and seems to be desperately trying to decipher the "rules" of her new peer group. Yves is quite solid and very much your son, as usual. He brought home a friend who, while he seems very much interested in meeting the legendary Captain Picard, also authentically likes Yves. Even so, I think Yves has made the least progress in adjusting socially. He seems moodier than usual and we had a talk with his teacher about his attempts to cope with the emotions of the other students, which she mistook for falling asleep in class. I believe that situation is resolved for the moment.

I miss you.

Teaching will be good for me, and has been pleasant so far. The students in two of the three courses I am teaching have challenged me, which is a welcome distraction. The third class is the basic first year psychology course, so all of them are brand new and raw as can be, full of excitement at being in Starfleet and more interested in the engineering, piloting, or science courses than in something of dubious importance, in their eyes. I have of course quoted you extensively in these first days, stressing to them that if there were a class in null gravity harp-playing at the Academy, it would be there for a reason and they would do well to focus on the work. I have been assigning them more homework than I intended; if they will not pay attention in class, they will work harder. I am using empathy to my advantage here. I know who is paying attention. If the work does not improve, I will inform them that I am aware and I will be grading them partially on class participation. I should not have to work harder than they are.

I unpacked some of your books.

LXVI from Cien Sonetos de Amor  
by Pablo Neruda

I do not love you- except because I love you;  
I go from loving to not loving you,  
from waiting to not waiting for you  
my heart moves from the cold into

 the fire. I love you only because it's you  
I love; I hate you no end, and hating you  
bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you  
is that I do not see you but love you

blindly. Maybe the January light will consume  
my heart with its cruel  
ray, stealing my key to true

calm. In this part of the story I am the one who  
dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,  
because I love you, Love, in fire and in blood.__

  
Love, come home to me.

Deanna

\-------------

Yves woke fully the third time his alarm sounded, turned it off, swung his feet off the bed, and almost stepped on Malcolm. He sat for a moment wondering how his friend, wrapped in a blanket and curled up on a pad his mother had somehow come up with at midnight, was able to sleep through the alarm. Yves had at least been awakened enough to ask for more time.

He heard the twins in the bathroom before he reached the door. They were arguing about who got to shower first. Bursting in, Yves shoved past Pierre and jumped in the shower stall, whipping off his pajama bottoms and tossing them over the door before either twin could do more than shout about it.

"Maman!" Cordelia ran out, shrieking for their mother all the way. Pierre slammed the door behind him. Yves enjoyed a hot shower, a leisurely drying-off, and wrapped himself in a towel. He looked both ways before crossing the empty hall and found Malcolm mostly-awake and sorting through one of his drawers.

"You'd better hit the shower if you want one."

Malcolm studied an isolinear module. "Why do you have so many of these?"

"There's games, music, old homework, books and letters on those. Why?"

"I've just never seen so many."

"We still use Starfleet standard issue. It's not the same casing you're used to getting commercially, but it's the same technology. Hurry up, before the twins get back."

While Malcolm complied, Yves dressed and headed for the kitchen. Maman was there, still in her robe and with her hair awry, looking as she often did before she woke completely. She squinted at the coffee maker, which was dripping slowly toward a full pot.

"You and your siblings need to establish a more peaceful way of deciding whose turn it is to go first," she said wearily.

"Sorry. I didn't think they'd get you out of bed."

"Well, they're in my bathroom now. I suggest you start breakfast. We've all managed to get up later than we should." She pulled the pot out of the coffee maker and poured, jammed the pot back into place, and shuffled off toward her room with her cup.

Amy arrived shortly after Yves replicated toast. "Does anyone at school know yet?"

He handed her the plate, plus the pitcher of juice that followed. "I haven't told anyone but the teacher." He knew exactly what she meant. They'd talked about it with Maman the week before school. The twins were less concerned about anyone knowing they were empaths than Amy, and Yves still wavered on the subject of disclosure.

"I guess it's inevitable that someone will find out, especially if Maman keeps showing up." Amy took the food to the dining room. She'd chosen another pair of those ridiculous baggy pants, a bright shade of green this time, and nearly tripped over one flopping cuff as she reached the table.

"So you're going to start telling people," he said, bringing out a dishtowel to mop up juice.

"I told Hailey last night." Amy put the toast out of the way of the puddle of orange and hurried back to the kitchen. "She was -- surprised, I guess."

"You guess? Get another towel." It explained Amy's silence on the way home, and the pensive, anxious mood he'd attributed to Just Being Amy.

Amy returned and joined him in mopping up before the juice could drip off the table. "I think it upset her. I mean, I know it did -- she just wouldn't talk about it. It was just her, after everyone else left and we were waiting for you. She said something about Abie acting up -- he's Ullian, and he sits in with us for math. The rest of the time he's in Fral's class. I said Abie was just nervous because he doesn't know anyone in our class yet. She wanted to know why I thought that, so I told her. And then she looked at me with this blank expression, I asked her what was wrong, she shook her head, and then you showed up."

"I was wondering what that was about. What will you do?"

"Go to school. See what happens." She made a face as she piled the wet towel in one hand. "Do you know what this 'other option' Maman keeps referring to is about?"

"Well, there's only three other options I can think of -- going back to Betazed, which will mean retirement for both Papa and Maman; going to France, which will mean a long commute for one or both of them; or, we're going to end up in one of those prep schools they mentioned before. I know they'll keep the family together."

Amy scowled and looked at the floor.

"Yeah, it's a little scary. But we're not done yet with Mercy Hills. Give it a chance."

"We'd better get breakfast done." Amy took the other towel from him and went to throw them in the recycler.

Malcolm arrived as Yves put down the last plate. "Wow," he exclaimed, picking up a napkin neatly tucked through a ring. "That's formal."

Before Yves could question, Maman arrived, in uniform and fit for duty. "Thank you, Yves, for getting breakfast."

"Amy helped," Yves put in as Amy reappeared with two more glasses.

"We'll have to get a schedule going over the weekend," Maman commented. She took her chair at the end of the table and ignored Malcolm's shock. "It's been nice to not have one for a while, but now that we're all going to school the lack of structure is slowing us down. Cordelia can manage a draft for us to work with, I'm sure."

The suggestion was nicely timed with Cordelia's entrance. Unlike her older sister, she felt no urge to conform to trends; she had on her usual leggings and loose tunic in different shades of blue, with a blue ribbon to tie back her hair. "How many weeks should I start with?" She flung herself into the chair next to Malcolm, who eyed her as if she'd beamed in.

"One rotation around, however many weeks that turns out to be. Is something wrong with the food, Malcolm?"

Pierre charged into the room and reached for the platter of eggs before he even sat down, nearly elbowing Cordelia in the ear. She smacked at him, landing a glancing blow on his shoulder, and bit into her toast. Maman glared, and Pierre acknowledged her with a glance and settled down in his chair.

"No, ma'am," Malcolm blurted. He picked up his fork, then realized he had nothing on his plate yet and blushed.

"We're probably not the sort of family he's used to," Yves said. "We're Starfleet, and not quite human."

Amy paused in shoveling egg in her mouth, but kept her face straight and reached for her juice instead of reacting. The twins paid no attention to anything but the food. Maman looked down the table, an eyebrow raised, and Yves sensed her questioning, but knew if he said nothing further she wouldn't press the issue. Not right away, anyway.

Malcolm stared down the table at Maman. "You're Betazoid," he said, as if slowly realizing that.

"Mostly so, yes." Maman sipped coffee and nibbled toast, which, strangely, was all she seemed interested in; usually she had fruit and sometimes a pastry, the latter shared with Papa.

"So you can tell what I'm thinking," Malcolm exclaimed, staring at Yves.

"No. I'm only a quarter Betazoid -- I can tell how you feel, sometimes. Which isn't such a big deal, since it's easy to tell from the look on your face." It was more complicated than that, but he trusted Maman's advice that simple was better, and minimizing their abilities would make their lives easier. Full disclosure could happen without repercussion only after a close relationship was established.

"Oh." Disappointment wasn't what Yves expected. Malcolm scooped eggs on his plate and said nothing more about it.

Until they unpacked themselves from the crowded flitter and left the twins and Amy behind, that is. The instant they reached the entrance to Mercy Hills Building A, Malcolm turned and said, "How do I feel?"

Yves poked him in the stomach. "Squishy. Come on, Mal, we're going to be late."

Malcolm glared at him, but turned and rushed through the open door into the crowded hall, narrowly missing a couple of girls who had slowed to look at them.

A couple of hours later, in the middle of algebra, Yves finished a particularly complicated problem and relaxed for a moment, only to find an interesting mixture of amusement and interest coming from behind him. Certainly equations hadn't brought this reaction from his classmates before. He glanced over his shoulder and saw only Malcolm and three other people with their attention too raptly on their work.

Yves turned back to his padd. Maman had told him more times than he could count that he shouldn't assume much about what he sensed from others. He did his best to remember it as the time dribbled off the clock toward lunch.

After Mrs. Gramere's dismissal, Malcolm disappeared while Yves searched his bag for his ID chip, which he needed for the replicators. The cafeteria was loud, as always. Yves stood in the hall, contemplating the shifting mass of pedestrian traffic flowing in and out, feeling as lost as he had the first day of school. As long as he had a destination or a purpose, he could manage, but this was the first time he'd been totally adrift. Malcolm had approached him the first morning with a smile and shown him how to find the administrative offices. He'd grinned upon finding out Yves was in his class. They'd spent their free moments together all week. Now he was nowhere to be seen.

He turned, about to go back toward the classroom, and suddenly felt a twinge of suffering, piercing the collective clash of teenaged emotion around him. Maman was right -- when it was from someone he knew well, he could sense them at greater distances and with more clarity. Doing an about-face, he navigated the busy white-walled hall to the nearest lift.

He found Amy outside, sitting on the edge of the paved yard on the tennis court, a bright lime green blotch against the forest green. She hugged her knees and appeared to be gazing longingly at the wire fence on the other side of a row of tall trees. As he approached, she spoke without looking up.

"Where's your friend?"

"Don't know." He sat next to her, crossing his legs.

"Let me guess. It's 'too weird' to know you can tell how he feels even when he's doing his best to hide it."

"He hasn't said anything other than asking how he feels. He's just doing something else right now. What are you out here for?"

"I was tired of having my own table in the lunch room." She unwrapped her arms, tore off a bit of a sandwich she'd been holding, and stuffed it in her mouth.

"I wish we were back on the ship." The words fell out before he thought about them, and to his surprise, they rang true. He hadn't really thought about much beyond the present, beyond making his way into the future his parents had begun for them here. It had only been a month. He still felt that this was all unreal, just a diversion, like the school term he and his siblings had spent on Betazed with their grandmother for the sake of immersing themselves in the Betazoid language. At some point, they would return home.

Only this was home, now, and when their father arrived, they would never be able to return to the_Enterprise_. The thought of coming here every day instead of their small, not-crowded classroom on the ship brought on a sense of hopelessness.

"Yeah, it's like that," Amy said, waving her fingers at him listlessly. "Maman said we'd make friends. I tried that."

"Maybe it's not the end." Yves reached for the sandwich; Amy's hand met him halfway. He tore off roughly half of what was left and gave her the half she'd already been nibbling on. "Maybe this is a transitional phase. Maybe if we stick with it, endure the -- "

"Do you really think Maman has a backup plan for us?" Amy blurted, turning away and tearing a great chunk of sandwich off with her teeth.

"Of course. I think it has something to do with Papa, though."

"Papa said once he thought about home-schooling us."

Yves sighed. The sandwich was familiar, a vegetable paste smeared on whole-grain bread, all the ingredients Betazoid. Amy must have spent a long time programming the lunch room replicators, or brought in a module from home with favorite recipes on it.

"I don't know if I could do that," Amy went on. "It's not that I don't like spending time with Papa -- or even with you or the twins."

"Thanks," Yves replied dully.

"That's not what I mean. It's just. . . . The goal of school is to learn. Maman says the social side is an important part of that. We're supposed to be making friends. We did on Betazed."

"I didn't think it would be a big problem, either. But maybe that's because it wasn't a problem at h -- on the ship. Everyone there knew all about Maman and about our abilities. And maybe it's mostly Starfleet people who're exposed to Betazoids. My teacher seemed to think I belonged in Fral's class. Maybe I do."

"Maybe I did something wrong -- maybe all of it was wrong." Amy stuffed the last bite in her mouth, propped her hands against the hard surface of the tennis court behind her, and leaned back to look at the sky. "I thought getting to know them first then saying something was the best thing to do."

Yves knew she was caught up in the regret and despair; she didn't sense the presence approaching them. He barely did, and only when it was within hearing range. He had no opportunity to warn her.

"I thought," she went on, closing her eyes, "that if they knew me they'd be able to accept it. I had so much fun at Hailey's last night. . . . I really felt a connection with her. And now she doesn't -- " At last, the tears came, and her grimace as she tried not to give in to the sobbing was painful to see.

"It isn't anyone's fault. Betazoids are quicker to connect with people. We can sense things about them that non-Betazoids have to learn by experience, over time."

"I know," she cried, smiling through her pain and looking at him through wet eyelashes. "I know. Maman's warned us about that forever. I thought I could tell when -- I thought it was really there. You know? She really liked me."

"She might like you again, when she gets over the shock."

Amy sat up, then lay back on the court and rested her forearm over her eyes. "I want to go home."

Yves glanced over his shoulder at last. A girl stood four meters away, uncertain and determined to approach; she flinched when Yves met her eyes but stood her ground. It took a minute for him to realize it wasn't one of Amy's friends but the girl from his own class, the blonde who usually sat nearest the door.

"Something we can do for you?" he exclaimed. Amy came up off the ground, all the way to her feet, and Yves brushed bread crumbs from his shirt as he stood.

"You're a Betazoid-human hybrid," the girl said. "That's what everyone else is talking about."

"So?" Yves didn't like the confirmation, but supposed it was just as well that he knew.

"I'm Rebecca Hall. I just started school here, too. My family moved from the New York area so my mother could teach at a college down the coast." Rebecca had light gray eyes. With hair the color of corn silk, one would expect her eyes to be blue.

"Our mother teaches at Starfleet Academy," Amy said at once. "Do you like it here?"

Rebecca's immense sadness didn't match her diffident tone. "Not really. You know what the problem is?"

Amy glanced at Yves and shook her head.

"These people are fine with the idea of aliens, but applying the lesson of tolerance the teachers promote isn't on their priority list." Rebecca's thin, pale lips tightened. "The kids here aren't like us."

"You're not like us, either." Yves crossed his arms.

"I'm more like you than the other human kids here. Before we lived in New York, my parents lived and taught on Vulcan. I grew up with a lot of kids who had pointed ears and aspired to be just as controlled and cold as their parents. Everyone analyzes and dissects everything, and I could do that, too. No one here does that. They're not interested in anything but what they like, what they want."

"And so how are you like us?" Amy had taken a clue from Yves' reserved manner. She crossed her arms.

"No one else likes me either. Because there's something about me -- my body language, the way I talk, I don't know exactly -- something that makes them uneasy in a way they can't or won't accept or understand. It's easier to ignore or make fun of me." Rebecca looked at the ground. "It was like this in New York, only worse. My parents moved here because of me. They thought putting me in a school where there were non-human students would help. But everyone who's not human thinks like you -- I'm human, so I'm like the other kids, so they don't want to even talk to me."

"I'm sorry," Amy said.

"That's interesting, but what made you approach us? There's nothing we can do about it, either." Yves glanced at the handful of kids gathering not far away. He recognized most of them from his class. Other students were playing on ball courts across the yard, or watching the players, paying no attention.

"I was hoping you might be interested in having a friend who understands," Rebecca glanced at the group behind her. "Can you tell me what's going on with them?"

"They're curious. Probably trying to figure out what to do with what they know about us. Want to go talk to them?" He looked at Amy. "What do you think Grandmother would do?"

Amy grinned. "I have a brilliant brother. I know exactly -- "

"No, wait," Yves exclaimed, catching her arm as she started to move. "I don't mean to do it -- just think about this. Remember Maman doing something like Grandmother would do, only doing it her way? She wasn't as outrageous, but she was just as confrontational."

"And those rude people in the restaurant just about fell over," Amy said, referring to just the situation he'd remembered, a confrontation in a Betazoid restaurant with total strangers who'd commented on the mixture of Betazoid eyes and human among the siblings. One man had mumbled something about 'unfortunate dilution of Betazoid blood.' Maman's reaction had been pointed, nonverbal and effective: she'd put herself between the people and her children, then stared them down with such an expression of affronted dignity and disapproval that they'd apologized as they backed away to take another exit.

"We need something like that, something that says what they're doing is stupid without actually saying it."

"What are you talking about?" Rebecca blurted at last. Amy explained in detail. Yves watched the group of kids and noticed Malcolm among them. He wasn't laughing like some of them were, but staring across the playground. He met Yves' gaze briefly and looked at the ground.

"There's the bell," Yves said as it went off. "Amy, we have to react. We just have to do it without appearing to confront them about it. No apologies and no shame. We're not the ones who should apologize -- we're being what we are."

"Meet their eyes," Rebecca said. "Don't look angry or upset, just -- just look like "so what," like they can't really do anything to hurt you."

"Except they did," Amy replied uncertainly.

"That can come later. Maybe if they start talking to us again. Let's go, we don't want to add being late to our problems."

As the three of them moved toward the building, the other kids moved ahead of them in loose knots of three and four people, and a lot of them looked back. Yves met their eyes each time he spotted someone looking and the person always jerked around to face forward again.

"They know better," he said softly as they reached the door. "We'll just keep reminding them."

\-------------

_Deanna,_

I believe I've deleted a message every day since you left. Sometimes simply because what I had to say was not quite as coherent as I would want.

I'm certain you are handling the children's issues quite well. If our positions were reversed, I do not believe I would be able to handle the added strain. Which is not to say there is no stress at present -- given the nature of our final mission, there's more than usual. But I am as usual finding it easier to cope with diplomacy than with thwarting my impulse to indulge our children.

I find it easier and easier to face leaving the Enterprise_ now that you are gone. It isn't the same without you and the children. Still, this ship and I have been together through a lot of turmoil and adventure, and I almost think it might be easier to part with a limb. I have been quite sentimental, especially late at night when I can't sleep and I am reduced to walking the corridors, remembering not the work but the time we spent playing cards, or strolling to or from a concert or play, or the trips to the holodeck. Perhaps it is a sign of how deeply affecting it is that I actually thought of one of your mother's visits fondly._

I have no words to help me express the depth of my inexplicable distress. I will be there as soon as I am able. Thank you for breaking the silence, cygne. I had thought that not communicating would be helpful as it has been before. We have changed over time, and I suppose I should not be surprised that this too has altered.

Give the children my love. I miss you.

\-------------

When Yves met Amy again on the curb where everyone who didn't walk home gathered to meet up with their transportation, he sensed her exhaustion. It matched his.

[Thank you. Your suggestion helped.] Amy's dark eyes caught hints of yellow from the setting sun.

[It wasn't easy, but I think it's working. Maybe they'll settle for ignoring us tomorrow.]

"Hey! Picard!"

They turned simultaneously. Malcolm ran to them, his padd in hand, open jacket flapping. He glanced from Yves to Amy and back. "Hey."

"Where've you been all day?" Yves asked, his sarcastic tone registering; Mal looked properly chastised, right before he got angry.

"Look, you should've told people," he exclaimed. "That wasn't fair."

"Yeah, I should tell people and let them avoid me because they can't accept anyone who's more perceptive than they are. It's too scary. I told you because I thought I could trust you and you would trust me. I told you earlier than I thought I would. I should've waited until you knew me better, so you'd figure out I wouldn't do anything to hurt you, but I didn't."

Malcolm looked at the ground, glanced off to the right -- there were a few guys at the other end of the drop-off zone looking suspiciously interested -- and set his jaw. "It wasn't fair."

"It's not fair that you and everyone else has decided we're dangerous without even understanding us. You just assume. It's wrong."

Mal glanced at the other guys again and shook his head. "No one's scared -- you pretended you were just like everyone else. We thought you were."

"You pretended you cared," Yves exclaimed, finally giving in to anger. "So go back to your pals over there and tell them your sob story. They'll accept you because you're just like them." Which was, Yves realized, a strange realization; Mal hadn't had many friends at this school, supposedly because he was so interested in things the other guys didn't care about. He'd even criticized them for not appreciating everyone's differences.

Shrugging, Mal looked away, to his left this time, and stepped back, resting his weight on his heel. "It's not that I don't like you or -- it's just -- "

"You felt like he betrayed you," Amy said gently. "But he was giving you the information because he thought you were his friend, and that you'd understand, or at least try to, and you'd keep being his friend. But you can't accept someone who's different than you."

"I accept plenty of people who're different," Mal exclaimed. Anger flared again.

"Just not me," Yves replied, matching his volume. Now people were turning to stare at them. "Thanks. Have a nice life."

Mal stared, horrified, and Yves realized -- this could have gone differently. Disappointment and pain mingled with anger, overwhelming him, and he couldn't sort out whose was what.

"Yves!"

He spun about. His mother had pulled up behind him. Amy already sat in the back seat, and her and the twins peered out the window, crowding together to look at him. Yves got in and slapped the door control without looking at Malcolm again.

Maman waited for him to say something. Everyone in the car silently projected sympathy at him, until he sighed and asked, "Can we go home?" Then everyone's attention drifted as Maman pulled away from the curb. Amy began to tell her what happened but stopped mid-sentence as Yves' humiliation registered.

There were days when he agreed with Papa -- living among empaths was not easy. He understood Mal's point too well.

When they got home, everyone got out of the flitter but gathered at the door to the house. Yves was the last out; he sighed and held out his arms. "What?"

"I know we've talked about this before," Maman said, shifting the strap of her bag on her shoulder. "I've gone to great lengths to teach all of you how to talk about emotions, because you'll sense it from everyone around you and I need to be able to help you understand what to do about that. But now you have to realize -- this gives you an advantage over others your age who lack empathy. You understand more about your own feelings than they do and you know how to articulate that. Not everyone can do that at fifteen. Betazoids develop their abilities later than this; it's human genetics causing your maturation, as they did mine."

"We know," Yves interjected at the first brief pause in Maman's reiteration of everything she'd said nearly every time one of them experienced any distress due to being an empath. But she went right on, and while the wording was somewhat different, the message was the same.

"I want to help you to not experience the difficulties I had. In doing that, I've pushed you to mature in understanding something that your peers are still learning. This means developing patience in dealing with them. They have to experience life on their own and work at it, or not -- sometimes humans don't ever learn how to manage even their own emotions. Betazoids, or anyone else with the ability to sense thought or emotion, don't have that option. An inability to handle emotions is more damaging to us."

"It's stupid," Yves blurted, surprised by his own volume. "It's stupid that they can't understand -- this is the Federation! We learn about this every day, their parents probably learned the same thing when they were in school, and there've been non-humans on Earth for -- for more than a century! And the Academy is here, and these are kids with relatives in Starfleet!"

But Maman calmly waited for him to finish, patient and unsurprised. "Research the statistical data on how many telepathic species actually reside here, as opposed to visiting. I also suggest research into the socio-cognitive learning principle. Let me know what you find out." She turned to go inside.

"I'll help," Amy said as she followed Maman into the house. "I'm interested too."

"Are you doing it now? I want to use the holo," Pierre exclaimed, pushing in front of Yves.

"Homework first. You know better, _petit_." Maman's voice drifted back as she disappeared into the kitchen. The twins were already racing down the hall toward the back of the house where the computer room was. Yves considered reiterating the command, but shared a grin with Amy and let them go.

"After dinner. I have to catch up with my homework," Amy said. "Once Maman figures out what they're doing, they'll lose the holo for a week. She's right -- I wanted to talk about things with Hailey, and she couldn't do it. She just doesn't understand. Someday I'm going to know everything like Maman."

"She doesn't know everything."

"Everything about people," she corrected. "She's always right about people."

"Well, yeah," Yves agreed, walking with her toward their rooms. The sounds of the theme to Pierre's favorite holo simulation game started in the distance.

\-------------

_Dear Isha,_

I'm glad to hear you're having a good time -- I'd like to play soccer too. I don't think we have a team here, though. There's basketball, racquetball, tennis and springball. I'd play springball if I trusted anyone not to hit the ball at me, as in to hit me, but ever since it got around that I'm part Betazoid people are acting oddly. I was asked a few times why I wasn't in Fral's -- that's the telepathic teacher -- class. Fral is Betazoid and I don't like him much. He's sort of "super" Betazoid, one of those people who's sure he's better than the rest of us.

So far the only subject I really like is literature. Well, there's history, but the teacher keeps getting things wrong. She's working on the last century. I guess she starts with recent events and works backward. But she's confusing me sometimes because we were taught differently.

I don't know when we're going to France. I hope we go soon. Remember the birthday party I had on the holodeck, in the simulation of Papa's house? I'll check with Maman and ask her if you can come with us, if your parents will let you.

Thanks for the pictures. London looks great. The ones of the palace were interesting. Reminds me of some of the Houses on Betazed.

Amy and I are reading about socio-cognitive learning. Maman suggested it because we're having so many problems understanding the kids here. I guess it's helping. Basically, the socio-cognitive learning principle says that people form their perspective on life based on what their parents believe, that they are confronted with social settings as they get older that modify that perspective but the base belief structures are still in place and show up as a series of assumptions made about what "normal" is. I guess Maman meant for us to understand that the kids we're trying to deal with are not really at fault. The school and a lot of the parents probably try to work with them to help them develop a larger perspective, but later experiences are what moderate the initial assumptions, and most of them haven't left their neighborhoods. There are some who've vacationed offworld or in other places around the Earth, but that's not enough.

Sometimes I wish we'd gone to Betazed instead. We didn't have this problem there.

Hope you pass that big exam. Talk to you later, I hope. I'll call direct if I can figure out time differences next weekend.

Yves

\-------------

The following week at school wasn't so difficult as it'd been; mostly people ignored Yves, including Malcolm. Yves sat in class and did what was required. He ate lunch with Rebecca, who talked a lot about her favorite subjects with little provocation. Listening to her describe Vulcan and Terran libraries filled the time, and was sometimes interesting. She loved books, which Yves understood, and particularly old books, which he didn't care so much about, though his father had taught him to respect them.

Amy showed up twice to eat with them, which made the conversation different; she wanted to talk about clothes, which she'd been obsessing over since they'd started school. Rebecca responded to that with enthusiasm, and Yves realized that the two of them were trying to understand trends. Evidently, there was some segment of the student body that criticized those unfortunate enough not to dress to their standards.

"Why do you care?" he asked them near the end of the second such conversation. Rebecca stopped listing the types of pants that had been popular the year before and frowned at him.

Amy stole another grape from him. "You may not care whether you make friends, but I do. No one's said anything to me, but they haven't acted like they hate me, either. And all the girls in my class love clothes."

"And so do you, but you don't know much about what they like." Yves shoved his plate across the table at her, as half a bunch of grapes was all he had left and he didn't want them.

"I thought you were interested in everything." Amy popped one of the grapes between her fingertips before putting it in her mouth.

"I'm curious about stuff, yeah. Like why it matters that everyone likes the way you dress."

Amy's brows drew together. "I didn't say that."

"You act like it."

"It's a way of connecting with people. Like, if you ran into a guy who loved starship battle simulations as much as you, you'd probably go play games with him for hours. I like clothes, everyone in my class likes clothes -- I just don't understand what they like and why, yet."

It reminded him of Malcolm, and before he could say or do anything Amy noticed it and said, "Oh." [Sorry. ]

"Remember the other part," he said. "Like Maman said."

"What?" Rebecca asked, reminding them she was still there.

"That people don't feel comfortable with us yet," Amy said, giving him a warning glare.

"And that we're more comfortable with emotions than we would be if we were human," he added, not liking the lie Amy told.

"Why's that?" Rebecca took another bite of her pear. Bits of green skin were stuck in her white teeth.

Yves returned the kick Amy gave him under the table. "We can sense them, and they're not easy to block out."

Rebecca sat, slowly chewing, and Yves could sense that something bothered her. She seemed to be building up to tears, a process that he'd sensed many times before from both his sisters, but it wasn't clear why Rebecca was upset. As he was about to ask, she got up suddenly. "I forgot, I need another book from the library," she announced, sidling off the bench. "Paper for North American lit class. See you." She hurried off, dodging a group of boys playing with a soccer ball.

"What the -- "

Amy threw a grape at him. "Cretin!" That was her favorite word for either of her brothers, when she caught one of them behaving thoughtlessly.

"I was being truthful, which is more than I can say for you," he exclaimed. "Besides, she already knows -- what's she upset for?"

"She probably didn't realize you could sense how she felt _all the time._ Are you dim enough that you can't tell she likes you?"

"I know she likes me! Why would she keep showing up at lunch if she didn't?"

"What a stupid -- "

"Amia," he cut in sternly.

"Well, you are! She likes you, as in, scribbling little hearts around you." Amy snatched up the padd Rebecca had left behind and held it out. Now that it was at a more readable angle, he saw what she meant. Rebecca had drawn a lopsided heart around a 'Y' in the upper right corner of her math homework. "And she's so upset she took off without it."

"It's not my problem how anyone feels." He tore the padd from Amy's fingers, intending to return it to Rebecca in class after lunch, but a hand shot over his shoulder and wrenched it away from him. He twisted around and blinked up at Rebecca, who clutched it to her chest and stomped away. Her expression and the intense anger she radiated told him this was worse than he'd thought.

"That didn't sound too good," Amy whispered. "To her -- I know what you meant. You can't control how anyone feels. We've been lectured and lectured and disciplined for trying. You're upset so maybe you can't tell, but she's really hurt now, not just embarrassed."

"Why?" he exclaimed, getting up and backing over the bench.

Amy shrugged. "Go ask her."

Yves caught up to her outside the library. Since that was across campus, in the northeastern corner against the fence, he was out of breath by the time he reached the foot of the steps. Rebecca glared at him and kept going.

"I'm sorry," he gasped.

She stopped on the top step but didn't turn around. "You don't care, so why bother?"

"That isn't true. I wasn't saying -- that wasn't what I meant! I don't even know what you thought I meant, but -- "

"What else could you mean? You don't care."

"I meant that I have no control over anyone's feelings! And I don't! That doesn't mean I don't have feelings myself, it doesn't meant I don't care, and I don't get how you would have thought that!"

He thought she'd glared before -- this time, she looked so angry he thought his skin would blister. Her anger eclipsed his frustration and left him speechless. He took a step, but caught his toe on uneven pavement and almost fell down, twisting at the last minute and landing in a sitting position on the bottom stair.

When he looked up again, she was gone, the door closing behind her.

"It isn't fair," he shouted. There was no one around to care.

\-------------

_Papa,_

I'm sending this from school. I hope it gets to you okay.

I don't know what to do about anything. I'm sure you have enough to worry about right now and Maman said that you had a lot to do, but she's not --

I'm worried about Maman, and I can't seem to make any friends, and the ones I thought I had are mad at me and won't talk to me. You always taught us to talk about it when we're angry at each other. Even Pierre will stop sulking eventually. But I don't know what to do with people who won't say anything and won't listen! They just walk away!

I'm confused and Maman's not happy at all, and I hate to bother her with stupid things like this, but I don't know what to do anymore. And I don't know what you can do, either. Maybe some advice on how to get someone's attention? Rebecca got really angry because she thinks I don't care, even though I do, and I guess she liked me differently than I thought, or something. Which doesn't make sense to me because I thought I would have sensed it.

I don't know. I guess I should go back to my math now. I hope everything's working out okay wherever you are.

Yves

\-------------

_Yves,_

I can only say that given time, people will be less angry and more open to discussing what went wrong. And if they do hold a grudge for whatever reason, that is their choice and as upsetting as it can be, it's not your place to convince them to change their mind. They may be making mistakes they will regret later but it's their mistake. In the meantime, you may feel anger and grief, but that's temporary.

Your mother will be fine. Please remember that she would be upset if you were to keep things from her, even if she's having her own difficulties. She would want to help you if she could.

Love, Papa

\-------------

Cygne,

I'm sure you already realize how upset Yves is. He may not mention that he sent me a message about it, or that part of his difficulty is related to your pain. He's trying to protect you. I didn't tell him how futile that activity could be.

Tom sent me a message offering the use of his beach house. I think we should take him up on that, even if it means he'll be present.

Please check on the vineyards. I haven't heard from Henri in weeks.

Love you.

\-------------

When Yves joined Amy at the curb after school, she said nothing to him, nor did she mention anything about Rebecca to Maman. Once the flitter was on its way, however, Maman reached across to grip his arm. A brief squeeze and she pulled away again.

"You probably heard me all the way from the Academy," he said miserably.

"I sensed it," Amy blurted. "I was almost back to class. It made me cry."

"I'm sorry." The misery was getting worse; empathy wasn't helping anyone at the moment.

"Does anyone else want ice cream?" Maman exclaimed suddenly.

Cordelia's head appeared between the front seats, and Amy's popped up alongside. "You sound like Grandma," Pierre announced.

Maman flicked the autopilot on and poked the 'home' icon, then covered her face with her hands. As Yves and all three of his siblings began to worry about this, she dropped her hands and laughed. It wasn't a happy sound.

"We're going to change clothes, then we're going to France. Pack enough for the weekend. With the time difference it will be hard, but we'll manage."

"Maman?" Cordelia's voice wavered; she was about to cry.

Maman's voice softened at last. "It will be all right, Cordie. All of us will be all right. Do you see why it's important to learn how to manage your feelings? We all feel badly for Yves, but it's easy when there are five of us to be caught in it."

"I felt bad for Yves before, but now it's like I feel bad for Pierre who also feels bad for Yves who's feeling everything we feel for him and -- "

"Amia, we know. And now I know why my mother learned to be so randomly inappropriate. I think we need a little vacation, and we haven't been to visit Tante Marie yet."

Once in the garage at home, they left the flitter as if evacuating a burning building. As they went in the house the twins talked loudly to each other in incomplete sentences about all the things they would do at the chateau. "How many bags can I take?" Amy asked, rolling her eyes when Maman held up one finger. She followed the twins. Yves followed Maman.

"I'm getting a sandwich before I pack," Yves said, stopping in the kitchen.

"Make one for me." Maman hurried away. Fleeing, Yves thought. She'd probably meditate for a few minutes. He replicated two salad sandwiches, and as he took them from the slot and placed them on the kitchen counter, the door chime announced a visitor. Yves knew who it was halfway to the door.

He leaned on the control, the door slid back, and Malcolm's head came up in surprise. They stared at each other for a few minutes. A query arose in the back of Yves' mind; Maman asked, in her subtle, wordless way, what was going on and whether she could help. [No, Maman. I'm fine.]

"I'm sorry," Yves said. "I was angry. I didn't want you to just -- I wanted -- I want to be friends."

Mal's face pulled in on itself in a mask of wounded confusion. "It wasn't what I meant to say either. But they -- when I got here last year, I tried to make friends with Kevin and -- as long as I had something to tell them, they acted like -- "

"I know. Remember the first day? Kevin and the others were friendly to me, except I could tell it was just curiosity and they were less interested at the end of the day than in the beginning. It's why I haven't made the effort to talk to any of them again. You were genuinely interested in being friends. So was I. Kevin and his friends aren't interested in anyone else, except when you have something they can use."

Mal grinned sheepishly. "So I should have been asking how they felt about me instead of how I feel?"

"You know how you feel. Why ask? Come in, already."

He did, sidling by Yves and glancing at the twins, who stood in the hall, each holding a bag. "Hey."

"Hi," Pierre said.

"I made sandwiches for me and Maman. If you're hungry, get something." Yves glanced at Mal. "Want something? We're about to leave for France, but we're eating first."

"Sure!"

By the time Maman came into the kitchen, Amy had joined the group and everyone was eating while leaning against the counter. Maman glanced down the row of chewing children and smiled. "I don't remember having another child," she exclaimed brightly.

"He doesn't look anything like Papa, either. Guess you'll have to explain that one." Yves grinned and the twins laughed.

"Not to mention where he's been for the past fifteen years." Maman picked up her sandwich. "Everyone's packed?"

"I answered the door and made sandwiches instead. I'll go do it now." Yves took his half-eaten sandwich with him, and Mal followed without a word. Behind him, Amy complained about not being able to fit clothes and homework in one bag.

"That's dumb -- all her homework is on a single padd," Mal commented quietly.

"She doesn't want to take it. She knows better but she tries."

Fidele was on Yves' bed, reclining like a sphinx, both ears standing up. Exactly where Yves had left him. "Fidele, when I said 'stay' I didn't mean 'stay just like that.'" Fidele cocked his head and thumped his tail. Yves glanced at Mal. "Go get in the baggage compartment of the flitter, 'dele."

"What?" Mal cried. Fidele flung himself eagerly from the bed and galloped off, bumping the door on the way out.

"Don't worry, he's not a real dog. He's an android. He's ridden in there before." Yves pulled a bag out from under his bed and selected shirts and pants from folded stacks of laundry on his pillow.

"You have the weirdest -- " Mal stopped himself.

"Different isn't weird. It's just what you don't know about. I'm having a tough time with that feeling, too, but it's because I grew up surrounded by people who thought 'different' meant 'interesting and worth learning about,' and that doesn't seem to be how people approach things at school. So 'weird' to me is being around people who make assumptions without learning about me." Yves rolled socks and tucked them in the end of the bag.

"Where are you going in France?"

"Papa's house. Our house, but -- well, we have several houses. There's one on Betazed, and this one, and the one where Papa grew up, which is in France. That's where we're going for the weekend. Our aunt lives there." The Fifth House didn't count as no one ever lived there, though Amy might have included it.

"Wow. Uh, I was going to ask -- if you didn't tell me to go away, I thought if you wanted to come over to our place this weekend, my mom said that'd be okay. But I guess you can't."

Yves sealed the bag and stuffed his homework in the end pocket. [Mal wants to know if I want to come over this weekend.]

Maman was on the alert, and probably had been since sensing his difficulties at lunchtime; she "heard" the thought, even though he merely projected it without a target. [What do you think?]

[I think I'd rather go to France. I was also hoping I could see Isha, remember?]

[A separate issue. See if he wants to do it next weekend.]

"I could come over next weekend. I'd like to."

Mal's eyebrows rose and nearly met, and his skeptical expression finally registered, along with the continued state of stunned near-belief.

"You thought I was going to shut the door on you." Yves sat on his bed and draped his arm over the bag. "You didn't expect me to accept your invitation."

Mal stared, mouth open, and his confusion grew. "Not really," he said at last.

"So why did you come?"

He shrugged. "I hoped you would?"

Yves studied his friend's wrinkled brow and pursed lips, trying to ignore what he sensed and respond to what he saw. "Do you still want to be friends?"

"Yeah," Mal said at once.

"So. . . should I pretend I can't figure out how you feel, or. . . ."

"I dunno." Another shrug.

"Well, Maman's good at helping us figure out stuff like this. I'm sure she'll be willing to help, next week."

Yves saw him out, waving as Mal walked off down the street, then took his bag out to the flitter. The garage lights were off, and the open storage compartment all in shadow, so when he threw his bag in and Fidele moved, it startled him.

"Sorry. Forgot you were there."

Fidele's tail thumped hollowly. "Where are we going?"

"France. We'll get to go for long walks and maybe we can borrow Mr. Fournier's horses."

The door slid open again. Maman, followed by Pierre, arrived with bags. "Are we ready? There you are, Fidele. I wondered where you got off to."

"He stayed a little too well. He's been on my bed all day."

Maman settled her green satchel in next to Yves' black one and reached back; Pierre put his navy-blue duffel in her hand. "Maybe you should run a diagnostic, Fidele. Especially on your linguistic databases and contextual filters. That sort of thing hasn't happened for a long time."

"I shall initiate a level one diagnostic." The dog curled against the end of the compartment farthest from their bags and put his head on his paws, ears folding down.

Cordelia arrived next, tossing her open bag in. A hairbrush fell out. She glanced at Yves, patted Fidele's head, and went to get in the back seat.

Maman eyed Yves. "Is everything all right?"

He knew what she meant. "No, but it's better than it was. There's this girl at school that I was eating lunch with, and she misunderstood something I said. I guess she liked me differently than I thought. That was what I had trouble with today. Malcolm ignored me all week."

"But now he's not ignoring you," Maman half-asked.

"It looks like he changed his mind."

"Like the time you and Isha argued and she didn't talk to you for four days."

"Not really, because we've been friends for a long time. I didn't know if Malcolm would talk to me again. It was the first time he got mad."

Maman smiled, a relieved-and-proud sort of expression, and turned to go back in the house. "I'll be back in a bit, and we'll leave."

Yves closed the back of the flitter and found Amy in the front passenger seat. "Well, okay, but you'll have to let me in the back."

"Go around the other side."

The twins giggled as he walked around the flitter. "Yeah, you laugh about it now, Just wait til I get in there!"

Maman returned to interrupt the shrieking. "I'd let you keep tickling them, but I have to concentrate on navigation," she said, flicking her fingers across the console. She glanced back, smiling. Maybe she was right and the trip to France was just what they needed.

\-------------

_Isha,_

I'm sending this from Labarre. We'll be here til tomorrow afternoon. Let me know if you want to come visit.

Yves

\-------------

"Yves!"

Maman's call echoed from downstairs. Yves dropped his padd on his bed and leaped for the door. He'd been so intent on solving an algebra equation that he hadn't been paying attention; now that he was, he could tell Isha was waiting downstairs. The twins responded as well and raced him to the stairs.

Cordelia reached their guest first, throwing her arms around Isha's neck. "Hi, Cordie," Isha said, returning the hug. She leaned and put an arm around Pierre, who mirrored the one-armed hug and grinned at her. "How are you guys?"

"I'll get something for everyone to drink," Maman announced over her shoulder on her way through the dining room to the kitchen.

"Where are your folks?" Yves asked. Isha followed him from the front hall toward the dining room.

"They dropped me off. Mom wanted to visit Paris. She actually thanked me for the excuse to come to France." Isha smiled at him. He had forgotten how dark her skin was, and how white her teeth looked by comparison. Her parents were Indian, her grandparents still living in Pondicherry, and while on leave her family would be visiting an aunt in London for a month.

"Let's play a game," Pierre exclaimed, racing off toward the hall closet where such things were kept.

"Sorry," Yves said, shrugging. He pulled out a chair for Isha; she took it with a shrug of her own. "We don't have to, if you don't want."

"It's all right. We can play a game."

Cordelia dragged the chair next to Isha out just far enough to squirm into. "How's Mink?" Cordie had bonded with Isha's small brown dog, back on the ship.

"He's not happy at my aunt's house, because she has a big dog, but he's okay. Where's Fidele?"

"He's probably still upstairs. We've been having problems with him. Sometimes he stays too well."

Maman returned with a tray about the same time Pierre arrived with a narrow box. "I don't suppose I could play?"

Yves glanced at Isha, who nodded. "Sure, Commander -- sorry, I mean Captain. Congratulations."

"Thank you, Isha." Maman put a glass of lemonade in front of each of them, an extra for herself, and shoved the tray down the table out of their way before sliding into the chair opposite Cordelia. "Are you enjoying your vacation?"

"It's okay." Isha picked up the game pieces and rolled them around in her hand. "It's totally different than I expected. I was only four the last time we were on Earth."

They chatted as they moved pieces around the board. Yves didn't really care for the game, but it kept them laughing at Pierre, who kept hitting a square that would send him almost back to the start. The rest of them rolled smaller numbers than he did, by some chance. Finally, Yves noticed how it happened.

"You're not even counting right. You're doing it on purpose."

Pierre grinned and turned a little red. "So?"

"Pierre," Cordelia exclaimed, shaking her head.

"I was thinking a walk would be nice -- we could walk down to Fournier's and say hello to his horses." Maman began to gather empty glasses. "What do you think?"

The usual pre-walk activity ensued, with Pierre running to the nearest bathroom, Cordelia wanting to change into a short-sleeved shirt, and Maman disappearing to put on riding clothes. Isha and Yves stood together on the front porch looking across the lawn.

"It's just like you said, like the holodeck," she commented. "It's beautiful."

"It's good to see you."

She smiled at him again, meeting his eyes, and he felt the pull; this time, he had no trouble deciphering what he sensed from her, and knew Isha had missed him as much as he'd missed her. Even as he leaned closer to those wonderful dark eyes with the gold flecks in them, he remembered the handful of empaths he was with and the urge faded. So did her smile.

"Everyone's Betazoid," he whispered. "And one of them is my mom."

Isha laughed, then leaned and kissed him on the lips. It lasted only a second. He blinked, stared, but before he could do more than that the door opened behind them. Maman brushed a hand over his shoulder on her way past.

"Come on!" Cordelia shouted as she ran out and across the porch. Jean-Pierre, her apparent target, followed her. Amy appeared next and hesitated on the bottom step.

"Yves and Isha are staying," Maman said, turning to walk down the path. "Let's go."

"But why?" Pierre exclaimed. He looked up at Isha beseechingly.

"Isha isn't dressed for riding. Plus, she came all this way to visit him, not the rest of us."

When the four of them reached the other end of the yard and disappeared around the hedge, Isha giggled. "She's Betazoid, all right. And she's a lot nicer about it than my mom would be."

"Your mom would be all over our thoughts and trying to see if we'd done our homework."

"Or worse." Isha hunched her shoulders and sat on the top step.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, I guess." Isha smoothed her hair back over her ear and watched him sit next to her. She huddled on the step, her arms tucked into her lap. "Remember when I told you she talked to me about sex, and how I shouldn't have it and why?"

"Is she doing that again?"

"She gave me a lecture before they dropped me off. She said the only reason I would be allowed to stay here with you is that I'll be supervised by your mom."

"Technically, that's still true. Maman could go to the North Pole and still be able to tell exactly what I'm doing."

"Really?" Isha straightened and met his eyes again.

"She's not exactly your standard model Betazoid. Anyway, I really didn't invite you here with any particular idea of what we might do. I just wanted to see you again."

Isha's warm smile returned. "What does your mom think about you having sex?"

"She doesn't really tell me what to do, just that she trusts me to do what's right for me."

"Wow, and she just left us here alone."

Yves looked across the yard and tried to ignore the mixture of expectation and anxiety from her. Or was that his? "Your mom doesn't want you do it. I won't do anything that would complicate your life. I'd rather see you again."

"Oh."

"I don't really have anyone I can talk to at school. Even Malcolm -- this guy I met, we hang around, but he doesn't really get it. He got all mad at me and I still don't understand exactly why. And there was this girl, Rebecca, and I guess she liked me more than I knew. She got mad at me, too. So I'd rather not mess up our friendship, and I'm not doing so well at friendships these days, so. . . ."

Isha shrugged and leaned to bump shoulders with him. "You worry an awful lot."

"What's new about that?"

She laughed with him and reached for his hand. "I'm not going to be on Earth for long, Yves. I'm going with my parents on some starship called the _Reliant_. It's a big one, with lots of other kids, Mom keeps saying. I don't know if I'll ever see you again."

"Why not?"

Isha pulled her hand away. "You don't need to get angry! It's not my idea, either. It's just what's going to happen, just like you're going to stay here and go to the Academy -- "

"I don't know if I'm going and I don't care right now!"

"No, you'd rather get angry and wreck what time we have left."

Yves let himself fall against the post to his right. The wood felt rough against his forehead. "It isn't fair!"

"No, but it's pretty much the way it is. Anyway, if we're not going to do anything my mom would disapprove of, what are we going to do now?"

"I guess. . . ." Yves took a deep breath and thought about it. "I could show you around."

"All right. Are you going to be mad the whole time I'm here?"

"No," he said dully. "I'm just tired of things going wrong. Sorry."

"I was really upset when Dad told us where we were going. Mom kept talking about maybe staying on Earth for a while, because there was this position she was interested in, but they gave it to someone else, and then Dad landed an assistant engineer position on this ship. . . . I guess it'll be all right. It's a ship, and it's what I'm used to, and you're right about everything being different here. But none of my friends will be there, and that's sad."

"We'll still be able to talk to each other once in a while."

Isha smiled and nodded, but Yves knew she was right. His best friend Tanner had left the _Enterprise_ when he was ten; Tanner's father had transferred. Kids came and went in Starfleet whenever their parents did, and it wasn't really fair, but it was the way it worked.

"What do you want to see first? I guess I could show you our treehouse."

\-------------

_Dear Papa,_

I found out yesterday that Isha's parents have a new assignment and she won't be on Earth much longer. I was really upset for a while, and in a way I still am. But I suppose it's unavoidable. I miss my friends and it looks like I'm going to keep missing them.

I haven't heard from Keph or deRia. I tried to send messages. I thought they were still on board -- are they?

Maman doesn't seem to sleep much any more. I hope you get home soon. We all miss you a lot.

Yves

\-------------

Yves groaned the fifth time his alarm went off. He fumbled at it, rubbed his eyes and rolled on his left side -- and flinched when he saw Amy standing in the door. Suddenly wide awake, he sat up. "What?"

"Good morning to you, too," she exclaimed sarcastically, then softened. "I need to ask a favor of you."

It registered that she was still in her pajamas. "What's that?"

"Can you give this to Rebecca?" She held up a folded pair of glittery blue pants. "I told her I'd loan them to her."

"Give 'em to her yourself." Yves yawned. "She won't come near me, remember?"

"I'm not going to school today."

"What? You're not sick. Maman won't let you stay home."

"No, but she'll let me go with her to the Academy." Amy tossed the pants on the end of Yves' bed. "Thanks."

"Hey!"

By the time he got out of bed she'd shut herself in the bathroom. He pulled up his sagging pajama pants and shook his head. The twins ran down the hall from their rooms and bumped into him one at a time. Both of them were already dressed.

"I hate time zones," Yves muttered, heading for the kitchen.

Maman appeared to be on her second cup of coffee, and she smiled at him as she turned from the coffee maker. "Good morning."

"Are we all going to the Academy with you, or is that just Amy?"

The smile faded. "I see not all of us have recovered from the time change. That's an unusually peevish attitude for you, Yves."

"Can I have some coffee?"

Maman eyed him and passed her mug to him. "Don't make a habit of it."

"I like coffee."

"I'm losing my children. They're turning into adults." Maman felt a confusing mixture of woe and joy; the former showed in her eyes, the latter in her smile.

"You haven't managed to really lose any of us yet." Turning it into a joke usually helped. Maman's smile broadened, and she came to lean on his shoulder.

"Get something to eat and get ready." She headed for her room, the long fluffy white robe swaying around her feet, then hesitated in the hall. "Do you know why Amy wants to go with me?"

"No." Probably because she didn't want to go to school, but why Maman would agree to help her ditch confused him.

"She wants to talk to a recruiter and start the paperwork for the Academy."

They'd talked about it as a family -- there were no expectations that they should do any particular thing, but they were expected to be considering possible careers, because it helped if they had an idea of what they should be taking in those last few years before college. That Amy, three years his junior, had already decided on Starfleet. . . .

"I want to go, too." The words fell out without much conscious thought. In the seconds after, he turned the idea over in his mind. He wasn't comfortable in school, and he doubted he ever would fit in. That was probably Amy's motivator, too. Papa had given them information on the process already; announcing their intentions early would gain them a guidance counselor at the Academy who would help them in picking classes to prepare. Starfleet felt like home. This house might feel like home at some point, but Papa and Maman were still Starfleet, and they would be the only reason any house would be comfortable.

Maman said nothing, but tears filled her eyes. She struggled for a few moments, then nodded and strode down the hall.

Amy arrived a short time later as he took a plate from the replicator. She'd gotten ready in record time, and wore not one of her trendy new outfits but a bright gold-on-red tunic and black slacks she used to wear while they lived on the _Enterprise._ The red was deep enough that it didn't clash with her coppery-brown hair.

"Maman's having one of her sentimental times," she commented offhandedly.

"Two of her kids are signing on at Starfleet. What do you think she'd feel?" Yves ate leaning against the counter, pulling apart his toast and eating sausage with his fingers.

"At least she's not in pain." Amy turned from the replicator. "You're going too?"

"I guess it's sort of inevitable. Nothing about the school feels like home. It's not like once we're signed up we can't change our minds -- the whole point of everything prior to the exam is to see if you really want to do it, right?"

Amy grinned. "Which discipline?"

"What do you think? I don't think I'd make a good doctor, and I'd prefer to stay out of engineering."

"I want to be a pilot."

"You?" Yves blurted, regretting it immediately. She frowned. "Sorry. I would have expected medicine or maybe communications."

"I really don't know, but pilot sounds like it might be fun."

"Also dangerous." Yves finished his breakfast and dropped the plate in the recycler. Amy chewed slowly on her croissant and looked thoughtful.

"Everything's dangerous about Starfleet," she said at last.

He thought she must be doing the same thing he was -- remembering visits to sickbay, to see Natalia, or deLio, or one of their parents. The last time had been only weeks before they left the ship on a runabout bound for Earth.

"Papa's been in Starfleet all his life," Yves countered.

"And Maman, and most of their friends. But it's still dangerous. But what else is there?"

"I don't know, but that's why we're going to the school we're in. To find out."

Amy rolled her dark eyes. "I don't like what I'm seeing."

Maman returned in uniform and in a hurry. "Bring breakfast with you," she announced on her way through.

After dropping off the twins, Maman took the expressway to the Academy. She had to park in a lot with other flitters and led them at a rapid walk along paths that took them across the campus. Cadets on the way to classes were everywhere, wearing white jumpsuits with departmental colors across the shoulders. The grounds were landscaped beautifully, and Yves kept his eye out for an old man who might be Boothby, about whom he'd heard much from both his parents.  
   
"You'll find kiosks at regular intervals if you need directions to anywhere on campus," Maman said as they hurried along. "I'll leave you at registration and when you're finished with the recruiter, you can come and find me."

"Is there anyone else around? What about Beverly?" Yves asked.

"Starfleet Medical isn't in walking distance. She's in research, which is in Sausalito. And you don't have clearance to visit."

She led them to a domed building that was, as far as Yves could tell, at the center of campus. Sunlight off the one-way translucent aluminum walls around the door nearly blinded Yves. He followed Maman through the sliding panels as they opened.

The administration building had been designed for show, and in the high-ceilinged lobby a group of potential cadets milled around a large multi-level fountain that contained rocks and rainforest plants. There seemed to be about a dozen boys and half as many girls; another large group of giggling girls came out of a restroom tucked in a nook behind the fountain. Some of them noticed the new arrivals and stared at Maman.

"I'll leave you here," Maman said over the echoing sounds of water and loud conversations.

Amy rose on tiptoe and bounced happily, then leaned to kiss Maman's cheek. "We'll find you when the tour's done and the recruiter's tired of us."

"Let's check in." Yves headed for the information desk, a half-circle of counter space along the wall to their left.

Once they'd given their names and expressed interest in Starfleet, the receptionist put them in the system. Upon hearing their surname she flicked her eyes up to stare at them briefly, but said nothing and gave each of them a badge. "This is your identification, your pass for the Academy for the day, and an emergency-only communicator. Please wear them at all times. Enjoy your tour of the Starfleet Academy."

"Thanks," Yves said, smiling at the cadet. She had two hollow pips; that meant second year. "Are you sciences track?"

She blinked, as if no one ever asked her questions other than where the restroom was and when the tour would start. Maybe no one else did. "Yes, I am. Astrophysics."

"I think astrophysics is pretty interesting."

She smiled, and it reached her previously-empty brown eyes. This probably was a boring job to do. "Maybe we'll see each other again, then. Your group is forming over there," she exclaimed, pointing. A uniformed man was gesturing for the group to form up.

"Thanks." Yves followed Amy into the milling mass of teenagers.

\-----------------

At the end of the tour, which was more superficial than the one Maman had given the family before the beginning of the term, the tour guide, a third-year cadet named Ken, read off names and assigned them to recruiters. Yves wondered if either of his parents had ever worked in recruitment. He couldn't picture either of them burbling happily about any of the hundred or so memorials to dead admirals or describing the wonders of the Academy Library with its five hundred terminals and extensive collection of busts of famous captains.

While waiting for their names to be read, Amy nudged Yves with her elbow. "So what do you think?"

"What am I supposed to think? The tour taught me there's a decent library, with a really bad bust of Papa on the second floor. The guide didn't say anything that helped me decide whether or not to sign up."

"Picard. Yves." Ken looked around until Yves raised his hand. What remained of the group stared at him. "Room 235, Julie Manning."

"See you later." Yves left the group and went down the hall, waving to Amy.

Room 235 was a long way down, and he lost sight of the group as the hall curved gently to the right along the west wing of the building. When he announced himself the door opened immediately and he found himself in a small, bare office space with another cadet.

"Hi," she exclaimed with an enthusiastic smile, gesturing at the single chair across a low desk. "How do you say your name?"

"Ev. Silent s. Hi." He dropped into the chair  and leaned to shake her hand.

"So what did you think of the tour?"

"Okay, I guess."

Julie looked up from the padd in front of her. "I see you were raised on the _Enterprise_. You're Captain Picard's son?"

"Yep. I was hoping you could tell me what the requirements are for admission. Whether it's different depending on the field you want to pursue." He was certain that it was, but he had to start somewhere. Julie wasn't very pretty, he thought. She looked almost masculine, except for the long dark hair tucked into a knot on the back of her head. Her smile cooled, and Yves sensed some confusing emotions going on behind the pleasant façade.

"If you are interested in the sciences, particularly astrophysics, cybernetics, or medicine, then yes, there are different requirements." She started going into detail, but Yves waved for her attention and she stopped.

"How about command track? What are the requirements for that?"

"We want our command track students to have a broad base -- math, science, and the arts. It's essential to have a well-rounded education prior to entering the Academy." That sounded like something she'd learned by rote.

"Are you command track?"

Julie's face fell, losing the vestigial smile. "I'm going into security."

"But. . . ?"

She stared at him. Behind her, on the other side of the window, trees swayed gently in the breeze.

"I'm sorry," Yves blurted. "I just -- is something wrong? You look -- " But she hadn't really shown on her face the depth of what he'd sensed from her. There was no way to truthfully extricate himself from this. "I thought, if you were command track, you would know, um, some of the things you can't read about, like tips, or, or you know. . . ."

She slumped suddenly, smiling in the way of someone trying not to cry.

"Here is a list of requirements," she managed, shoving a padd across at him. "If you have any questions you can contact the recruitment office."

Yves sat stunned for a moment. "That's it?"

"Yes, that is indeed it. I'm sure you can find your way out. Good luck, I'm sure you'll have a bright future in Starfleet, Mr. Picard."

Speechless, he took the padd and left her there. Outside in the hall, he paused, sure that she was now crying. But she wasn't anyone he knew, really. He should have resisted the urge to pry.

A lift at the end of the wing took him down to the ground floor, and he found an exit into a shaded courtyard. Getting his bearings, he pushed through foliage and jogged across the rolling lawn toward the medical services building. Maman would be in class, but he could sit in. He was crossing a bed of short flowering shrubbery when a shout caught him.

"You! Use the sidewalk!"

Yves turned to find an old man wearing a broad-brimmed hat and wielding shears standing on the edge of the flower bed, glaring. "Are you Boothby?"

"What matters is that you're in my flowers, young man, and you're breaking the branches. Get out of there! Do you know those plants came all the way from Cardassia, in stasis? Very fragile, very hard to obtain."

Yves carefully made his way back out. "I'm Yves Picard. My father told me about you."

The old man straightened, swept off his hat, and squinted at Yves. A smile wiped away the disgruntlement. "Well. I should have known. I've been expecting you."

"What?"

"Certainly. Here to sign up for the Academy, I see. How is your father?"

"Okay, I guess."

"Now, there was someone born to the job." Boothby planted his hat back on his head and swiped his gloved hand across his forehead. "Though he certainly wasn't sure of it all the time."

"I guess that's part of the process," Yves said, repeating what his mother had told him.

One of the bushy white eyebrows rose slightly. "Yes, indeed. How did you come to be out in my flower beds and not in school?"

"I was supposed to be spending the next hour or whatever with a recruiter. I think I upset her -- that and she wasn't really happy in the first place. I just asked if she was command track, and she shoved this at me and ended the meeting." He held up the padd.

"And you think she wasn't happy in Starfleet because of this?"

"Her name's Julie Manning. She said she was going into security but she wasn't happy about it."

"Ah, Julie. Yes. Well. I see." Boothby glanced up at the building. "Going to find your mother?"

"She's teaching right now. I thought I could sit in the back until she's done."

"Or you could help me weed the pachysandra, over behind the student union."

Yves didn't care much for the idea, but both his parents had endorsed the notion that Boothby was a good friend to have. He smiled. "Sure. Why not?"

Maman found him some time later. Yves sensed her late, just as she stopped on the path along the flower bed. Weeding had been more involved than he'd expected, as it also involved lessons in weed identification and botanical trivia.

"I see you've found Boothby," she said as the gardeners rose and shook off dead leaves and soil.

"I know I was supposed to find you, but he asked for my help."

Maman tilted her head. "How long have you been doing this? I expected you to be with the recruiter, still."

Yves couldn't find the words. Suddenly, it came home to him what that short time with the recruiter might imply. Boothby surprised him by saying, "He was at a disadvantage. The luck of the draw put him with someone who's struggling through her own choices about her future."

"I only asked her if she was command track. I wanted to know more about it. She sort of. . . she didn't want to talk about it, I guess, because she handed me a padd and said we were done." Yves shrugged. Unfortunately, Maman wasn't fooled for an instant; she had that familiar expression that told him she knew there was more to it. Fortunately, she didn't say anything.

"Are you free to talk to me, then?"

"I'll be fine -- this is almost done. Thank you for all the help." Boothby put his gloves back on and went about gathering the pile of pulled weeds into his arms. "See you later, Yves."

"Okay. It was nice meeting you." Yves stepped over the stones bordering the path and walked with Maman, away from the student union.

"Amy is with her recruiter. I saw them walking toward the astronavigation building. I'm sure from her excitement that she's about to have a look at some of the flight simulations used in training." Maman hesitated, putting her hands behind her back. "If you had spent more time with yours, she might have shown you the facility of your current preference."

"I know. I'm sorry."

Maman didn't look at him, which sparked anxiety -- that usually meant she didn't want to say whatever he was about to hear. "I know that we all decided on what school you children would attend as a family, and that you and Amy specifically wanted a school that wasn't associated with Starfleet. We did the best we could in terms of curriculum and location in accommodating that wish. However, I have to wonder whether you have changed your mind, given your behavior today."

"What?" Yves asked, genuinely taken aback.

"You asked to go with us, to see a recruiter. Yet you don't seem to have taken the opportunity very seriously. Did you come to get out of school?"

"I. . . ."

"Are you going to announce you've changed your mind, as Amy has, about going to a preparatory school?"

Confused, Yves stopped walking. They had reached an intersection of paths, at the center of which a large tree grew. Maman sat on a bench that circled the thick gray trunk.

"I haven't thought about it," he said finally. "The prep school, I mean. We're enrolled and in the middle of the quarter -- I didn't think switching was an option."

"Neither is not going to class whenever you don't feel like it." Maman looked up at him and waited for an answer.

"It wasn't about that. I wanted to come -- it was just -- after the tour I felt differently. The cadet wasn't really as excited as he sounded, and the group was really excited at first but less so as they went along, and -- "

"What have I told you about feelings?" Maman interrupted.

"I know, I can't go by them for everything or I'll always be changing my mind. Which was why I went to see the recruiter. She was so unhappy and I only wanted to help, and she sent me away. And Papa said I should make friends with Boothby, if I came to the Academy, and so did you."

Maman's shoulders drooped and she looked at the ground. "I suppose we did, didn't we? So of course you did so. Come sit down."

He obeyed, wishing he'd just gone to school. As he sat he noticed the dirt ground into the knees of his best black pants.

"Yves," Maman said, getting his attention. "What do you want?"

"I don't know anymore. I thought I wanted to go to that school, but nothing's the way I thought it would be -- no one there is anything like the kids I knew on the _Enterprise_."

Maman sighed softly.

"I know, I shouldn't have expected them to be. You said so. But they're even different than -- I don't know, Maman, I thought they would be different, but not. . . indifferent. The guys in my class learned just enough about me to know that I'm nothing like them, and they've ignored me ever since. It wasn't even about empathy. Now it's just Mal who has anything to do with me."

"And what is it that distinguishes Mal from the others, other than being your friend?"

"I'm not sure." He hesitated, sensing that she was waiting for something -- what was he supposed to say? "What do you think?"

"Perhaps that's the wrong question. What's so different about the other kids in your class?"

''I thought it was because I wasn't interested in the sports they play, or the way they talked, or their attitude toward the classes we have -- they all act bored like they don't need the information. There's no parrises squares court anywhere and there's no holodeck, and when I went to the chess club there were four kids who said I could join but they kept looking at me like they couldn't figure me out."

"So you didn't go back," Maman said thoughtfully. "And how often have you approached the other kids in your class?"

"What do you mean?"

"How often have you gone up to them at recess and asked if you could join whatever they were doing?"

"A couple of times. They weren't exactly enthusiastic."

"So you haven't really given anyone a chance. They aren't going to know who you are unless you're persistent about it. You've spent all your life in a very small circle of friends on a starship -- you've never had to make new friends this way. They don't know you and they don't have a lot of incentive to, if you're not showing any interest in knowing them. You can't let your knowledge of how they feel be your guide in this, Yves, because how they feel can change."

"Oh." He sighed, leaning into Maman's shoulder as she hugged him. "I didn't think about that."

"Other people will feel bad -- they'll act as though everything's all right, but inside they'll be sad, or angry, or afraid. Or indifferent. You have to let them function as they will, and do whatever you're doing without letting what you sense change it. If you wait for others to feel okay about you, you'll never reach that point and never make friends with them. They have to know you first."

"This is what you were talking about before, I guess. It was totally different on Betazed."

"Because you were among people who placed more emphasis on the internal states of others, and they understood that side of you. That's why I wanted you all to stay there for an extended period of time, to learn about that part of your heritage."

"That and you had Papa all to yourself for a while," Yves exclaimed, grinning, until he realized what he'd just said and regretted it.

Maman's hand tightened on his left shoulder. "You and your siblings are being protective of me. You know I'm having difficulty with the separation. I wasn't really aware of how much it troubles you until your father told me you'd mentioned it in messages to him. While I appreciate your concern, Yves, you need to tell me about any difficulties you're having at school, because it's not acceptable that you've struggled for weeks with something so straightforward. I had similar difficulties at your age and I've already talked to you about some of them. You know I can help you, yet you kept to yourself."

"But Papa said -- before we left, he said to take care of you."

Maman snorted. "That wasn't a request, _petit_. It was one of those things humans say when their loved ones are departing, an expression of love and goodwill, not an order. I'm your mother. I'm here to take care of you. While I've relied on you more than usual lately, that doesn't mean I need your help that much."

"Oh."

"Is there anything else you haven't told me that I should know?"

"I hate sharing a bathroom with the twins."

She laughed and rose from the bench, tugging his arm. "Suffer for a few more days and we'll talk about remodeling when your father gets here. Although if you decided to switch schools, you may find yourself in a dormitory and the problem will then be moot."

"No." He walked with her down the path toward a gleaming silver building surrounded by trees.

"I could simply transfer you to the preparatory school, you know."

"No," Yves repeated firmly.

"Just checking." She put her hands behind her back, as she often did when strolling and thinking. "Did you enjoy your visit with Isha?"

The question caught him off guard. "Sure."

"You seemed upset after she left."

"Her family is leaving soon. Mr. Yamini has a new posting on another starship."

"Yes, I know. He asked me if I would write a recommendation for him."

Yves clenched his teeth rather than respond immediately. Maman sighed and stopped walking, turning to face him.

"You don't think I should be angry," he said. "Well, I'm not angry at you."

"I see."

"She was my best friend!" Maman raised an eyebrow at that. "She was! I can't talk to Mal the way I could talk to her."

"Should you expect to? I certainly wouldn't talk to Tom about the same subjects or in the same way as I do to Beverly, or Worf, or my mother. It sounds like what you are hoping for is to find more of the same -- wasn't it you who lost his temper over people at school not having an appreciation for the differences of others?"

Yves stared at her, unable to respond to that. Maman smiled and turned away down the path. When he caught up to her, she put her arm around him briefly.

"I know you will miss Isha. I know you feel angry and want to change your situation. These are natural reactions to what's happening, and I can only say that things will change, and you can either figure out how to work toward changing them, or cling to feeling like a victim of circumstance."

"Did you ever lose a best friend?"

Maman's reaction surprised him all over again. He glanced at her face when he sensed her sadness and weariness; she seemed to be fighting to keep her expression neutral. She looked ahead, along the path.

"In a sense. Relationships change, Yves. Sometimes friends become lovers, or enemies, or coworkers, or vice versa. It can be difficult -- on the one hand, you need to be adaptable and be open to the positive side of this; on the other, sometimes people have difficulty renegotiating personal boundaries."

"Does it ever get easier?" He wondered who it was Maman was feeling such turmoil about.

"That depends. In your case, I believe it will be less painful than you think."

  
\------------------

_Jean-Fish,_

Our son, our wonderful responsible easygoing son, is going to drive me mad. I am so tired tonight that I can't sleep.

Amy and Yves both wanted to see a recruiter today. I took them with me to the Academy and gave them a shove in the right direction, with instructions to find me when they were done talking to the recruiter. Amy followed through. Yves was given a recruiter who'd recently been disqualified from command school, and of course he asked about command track. She ended before they really began and Yves ended up weeding with Boothby, which is better perhaps than some other things he might have done, but still not what he said he would do.

Complicating matters, we visited Labarre over the weekend to get away from the strain of trying to find our way in our respective schools. Yves wanted to see Isha Yamini, whose family is currently in London, and I saw no harm in it. As it turns out Yves had hoped Isha would be staying on Earth; when she told him she would be leaving, he became very angry, and that carried over to today, I think. Our sociable son is lonely and wants his safe group of friends he's known most of his life, not a few hundred strangers who aren't making an effort to meet him halfway. Not that he's gone halfway. I had to remind him to try harder.

On top of this, I think his desperation has finally pushed him to let some of those hormones of his come into play. Isha's mother didn't stay around. I deliberately took his siblings horseback riding to give all of us something else to focus on, in order to give him the privacy. I think he may have finally kissed her. I don't think he went further than that; they were out hiking in the woods when I returned, and neither of them showed any sign -- I would have known. But he's not talking about it, and he seemed somewhat alarmed when I brought up Isha's visit. I remember feeling that way because of my mother's incessant and loud commentary on sexuality, and how reluctant I was to even think about it when I was Yves' age because of that. She thought she was helping me overcome my shyness, and really only made me feel worse. For him, I think he's held back by having empathic siblings he knows will comment, and also that I am able to sense him even across the miles. . . these things combined with his need for privacy keep him wary. He's been cranky since Isha left with her parents, and now he looks tired. Just like I will if I can't stop worrying and get to sleep.

I'm trying to respect his privacy but make myself available. Right now he's in bed, frustrated and probably waiting for me to go to sleep so he can masturbate. There's a familiar quality to his frustration. It would be so easy to borrow from my mother's playbook right now and just tell him not to worry, I'll do it too so neither of us will know the difference.

Maybe I'll just start without him.

Damn empath.

When you stop laughing, please send me a reply and attach the replicator pattern for the boundary generator that I neglected to pack when we left the ship. It may take all night to download, but at least we'll get sleep tomorrow.

I love you.

\-------------

Cygne,

I'm not laughing. Were I there, I would help you with your "situation." Which I can do regardless. Look for the crate numbered 32. The generator is in the bottom under my chess set.

As for Yves, we've been waiting for the teenager. It sounds like he's here, and I wish I were there to help you. Thank you for not being anything like your mother.

I may finish this earlier than anticipated. I don't mean to get your hopes up, but mine already are.

\-------------------

The following morning, Yves opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. Time to get up. His body felt like bags of sand, heavy and uncooperative. He groaned and flopped over on his stomach, twisting the sheets around his legs. He heard the cover, bunched at the foot of the bed where he'd kicked it last night, slip off to land on the floor. A headache squeezed his brain.

His door, already half open, slid back. He peered through his eyelashes; black pants, taller than siblings -- must be Maman. He felt her fingers, short lacquered nails and all, comb through his hair.

"You're late, _petit_. Even Pierre is dressed. Analgesic?"

"Mmmmm."

The hypospray pressed against the back of his neck was like a cold kiss, there and gone, and Maman left the room. He rolled on his back and waited with closed eyes for the medication to wipe away the sharp fingers around his cerebrum. When he opened his eyes, Amy was standing where Maman had been, staring down at him.

"You're going to make us all late," she announced.

"Go 'way."

He heard whispering, then Fidele leaped on the bed and danced around him, bouncing on the mattress. It was enough. Yves stumbled to the bathroom.

Bathroom to closet, to kitchen, to flitter. He ate another of whatever had been last replicated on the way to school, hardly tasting it. Yves was awake by the time he got out of the flitter. He didn't give the milling crowd of kids in front of his school half a glance. He held Amy's bag for her while she climbed out of the back seat. They watched Maman drive away, then turned to walk in.

"See you at lunch," Yves said as they reached the first intersection of hallways, where Amy usually went left and he usually rode a lift up.

Amy hesitated. "You really want to stay at this school?" She'd laid out all kinds of information on the local prep schools the night before, narrowed it down to two of them, and debated the minimal differences between them with anyone unfortunate enough to walk through the dining room. Maman had devoted a couple of hours to discussion with her.

"It's not that. I just don't think prep school is the answer. It'll just be a different set of problems." He looked in her eyes as he said it, and realized in the instant he sensed her plummeting mood that he'd just killed the hope in her. "But maybe you'll be happier there, starting over again. Maybe you'll find friends who aren't so into clothes and other things that don't have anything to do with who you really are."

She smiled weakly, acknowledging his attempt, and raised her hand in a half-hearted parting wave as she turned to go.

Yves waited for one of the four lifts with a growing number of students and jammed himself in the next one available. Someone pushed him one way, into the elbow of a tall dark-skinned scowling guy he remembered from class.

"Sorry, Jajihal."

Jajihal -- most people called him Jay -- gave him another look, this time surprised. "You said it right."

"What?"

"My name. No one says it right. They always say the J too hard."

"People don't seem to understand my name, either. Mine's French. What's yours?"

"My mom named me after an uncle who grew up on Galiapunta." Jajihal grinned. "How do you say yours?"

"Ev." The lift lurched to a stop and some people got off, and four more came in.

"Yeah, okay."

On their floor, they were the only two heading for their classroom. Yves went in, glanced around, and saw Mal in the back left corner. The desk near the door where Rebecca usually sat was conspicuously empty.

Jajihal cuffed Yves on the shoulder and gestured at a couple of desks two rows in front of Mal. The intent was clear. Flashing Mal a smile, Yves took a seat next to Jajihal and opened his bag. He docked his padd with the desk and watched the homework he'd done sift into the school network, to be routed to Mrs. Gramere. The surface of the desk glowed and the day's assignments appeared down the left pane, and the right pane presented a schedule of activities for the week.

In a corner, a small window popped up; Mal was texting him. He almost didn't hear the soft beep over the chatting girls in the next row. "Where wre you yesterdy?"

Yves tapped in a response on the letter pad. "I went to the Academy with Maman and saw a recruiter. Tell you about it later."

The response came back a few minutes later. "Wht about this wekened?"

"Still coming over. Did you ask your mom?"

"She wants to met you."

Mrs. Gramere came in just before the first bell. She glanced around the room, her gaze lingering on Yves for a moment, and went to her desk. "Good morning. We'll start with questions about yesterday's homework, if anyone has any?"

Geometry dragged on, as did history -- most classes in the morning seemed to take a year or so, Yves thought, but he followed along while other people asked questions and volunteered to have their work projected on the screen at the front of the class. Mrs. Gramere played some old footage depicting news broadcasts from the Eugenics War, and one thing led to another; one of the girls couldn't understand what Khan Noonien Singh's goal was. Yves glanced her way and noticed Jajihal rolling his eyes. He smiled, and Jajihal smirked.

"Yves, what do you think Khan intended to do?" Mrs. Gramere asked.

"He wanted to improve the human race -- he was one of many Augments who took control of different countries to promote their agenda. He was considered one of the less cruel leaders because he restricted freedom of the citizens, but didn't instigate civil war or massacre the populace. I think he wasn't so much evil as he was impatient. He was really brilliant but ultimately his use of violence and destruction to achieve his goals were his downfalling."

Gramere stared at him. "Yves, did you read the text?"

"Yes. I also talked to my mother about it and she showed me a book of essays on power, coercion and leadership. One of the essays was written by Khan." The text they were using in class had confused him with its vagueness.

"I see. So your understanding of Khan's motives was informed by something he wrote. You don't see a problem with that approach?"

"Problem?"

"Khan was a product of the twentieth century. His limited perspective -- " She stopped, clearly befuddled. Which anyone would be, if they only used the textbook.

"You asked about his goals. Wouldn't something he wrote himself be a good source for understanding them?"

"In theory." Mrs. Gramere wasn't happy.

Yves shrugged and smiled at her. It seemed to help. She asked someone else to explain what happened when Khan was overthrown. Yves bit his lip and kept silent while Joel Byerly mangled the story of Khan being revived by Kirk and exiled to a planet. Stories that involved the_Enterprise_ in its various incarnations had once been his preoccupation, and Khan's encounters with Kirk had been favorites.

Morning break was too short; in fifteen minutes they were supposed to go outside and get back to class in time, but even with all the lifts working that was a challenge, in spite of staggering the break periods so not everyone was going out at once. Most of the time Yves settled for walking around the halls on the fourth floor and coming back. Mal charged out the door behind him as usual, but this time Jajihal joined them.

"Hey," Mal said warily. Not hostile, just surprised, Yves noted.

"You know Malcolm, right?" Yves asked.

"Sure. You guys feel like some basketball?"

When they reached the courts six upperclassmen had already started a game. Jajihal shrugged and watched from the sidelines. Mal nudged Yves with an elbow, but Yves didn't look at him.

"What did you think of the Academy, Yves?"

"It was interesting, but not as much as I thought." Yves glanced at Jajihal. "My sister and I went yesterday for the tour."

"I've done that. Not my idea of a career."

"I was considering switching to a prep school. My parents suggested it but I told them I'd rather stay here."

Jajihal turned to smirk at him. "I'd go to a prep school in a second. Better facility, with holodecks and all. But my mom knows I don't want to go Starfleet."

"Yeah, but I have friends here," Yves said, glancing at Mal again.

"There goes the bell." Jajihal sighed as they headed for the building.

Yves made it through literature to lunch, and again, Mal appeared at his elbow on the way out of the classroom. This time Jajihal brought someone with him, a taller blond boy named Paul. On the way to the cafeteria Paul told bad puns. It wasn't so hard, Yves thought. Paul wasn't really interested in him, but he wasn't rejecting him either. Why had he made this such a big deal before?

They went through the lines at the replicators and were on their way to the benches outside when Amy found them. "Hi," she called out as she jogged around the corner.

"Hi," Mal replied.

Yves turned to the other boys. "My sister Amy."

"Hi, Amy." Jajihal stepped forward, holding out his hand. "I'm Jajihal Madranna. This is Paul Cochran."

Amy shook his hand, looking from one of them to the other, stunned. "Hi. Yves, I can't remember my ID code, and I left my chip at home."

"I'll order you something with mine. Be right back, guys." He went inside, Amy tailing him, and chose the replicator with the shortest line. "I thought after a few weeks you'd have it memorized."

"I keep getting the last few numbers mixed around. Maybe I should just write it on my arm." She leaned to bump shoulders with him. "You said you didn't have any friends."

"Well, it's not exactly that yet, but it's better than it was. Still thinking about prep school?"

Amy glanced around. "I don't know. Have you seen Rebecca?"

"No, and I forgot to bring those pants you wanted me to give her, too."

"That doesn't matter. I just was wondering if she was here. . . I heard a rumor that she wasn't coming here any more."

"I just know she wasn't in class. Maybe Mrs. Gramere will tell me."

They ate sandwiches with the others, and Yves noticed that Amy seemed to focus on Jajihal, and that the interest was mutual. Sensing attraction in all levels of intensity wasn't new; Amy had been obsessed with boys before, and there were always subtle variations of it going on around him. The trouble was she'd always obsessed from a distance but now she was getting bold enough to laugh at the guy's jokes.

He wondered if she even noticed his relief when lunch ended and she had to hurry off to change for gym. Paul proved that Yves hadn't been the only one to notice what was going on by teasing Jajihal about having a girlfriend.

"She's only twelve, and our parents won't allow it," Yves said, looking at Paul. "Besides, she's been talking about prep school."

"Twelve?" Jajihal stopped smiling.

"Three years younger than me. She's smart and nearly as tall as me, so people think we're about the same age."

Jajihal looked thoughtful and said nothing more on the way to class.

They reached the classroom with eight others and filed inside slowly. Yves looked for Rebecca and sidled up to Mrs. Gramere's desk. When she finally turned from speaking to one of the girls, he asked where Rebecca was.

"She transferred to another school. While you're here, Yves. . . I hope you understand that studying beyond the text is something I encourage. I know that your previous schooling methodology was different -- how has the curriculum been for you? Are you finding it challenging?"

"It's different, like you said, but I think I'll be okay." He smiled and went back to his desk before she could ask another question.

During biology he thought about Rebecca and where she might have gone. There were ways to find her; maybe she would talk to him again if he apologized. Maybe enough time had passed that she'd cooled off. He'd have to use the computer at home. The school network was heavily monitored and anything sent to external systems that couldn't be considered assignment-related traffic was questioned and the perpetrator fined.

At the end of the day, he stuffed his padd in his bag with the uneaten lunch he'd brought, smiled at Jajihal, glanced at Mal, and headed for the door. Mal nearly beat him out of the room.

"You know, he's not as bad as I thought," Mal exclaimed.

"He's okay."

They were at the corner and heading for the lifts when Jajihal caught up to them. "Hey, Yves, did you notice there's a group project for history coming up?"

"I haven't really read the schedule. Why?"

Jajihal grinned. "Supposed to be groups of five. You guys want to be three and four with me and Paul?"

"Sure," Mal said.

They walked together, rode a lift crammed with excited kids, and joined the flow of escaping students. Amy found them on the steps outside the building. She looked and felt anxious, angry and frightened. Yves flinched and grabbed her arm.

"What's wrong?"

She blinked, startled, and he realized he'd spoken in French. She answered in Betazoid. "She took my jacket. They shoved me into the bathroom and she asked for my jacket and I tried to leave, and she pulled it off." Her fear and humiliation rose as she spoke.

Infuriated, Yves scanned the crowd until he spotted the flamboyant patchwork of blue, red and green that was the jacket Amy wore to school that morning. A dark-haired girl wore it as she strutted toward the street. Yves leaped down the steps in a single stride and zigzagged around other kids until he reached the girl and snagged her sleeve. Hard. She whirled and stared, belligerent at first but then startled when she saw who it was.

"This is a hand made jacket, one of a kind, designed just for my sister. You are going to give it back or we're taking this to the police and pressing charges, and you're going to be arrested for theft. Not to mention assault."

"What? You can't -- "

"Don't TELL ME what I CAN'T DO!" he shouted. Her reaction, and those of the girls with her, were gratifyingly immediate. Around them the movement of other kids slowed, and the noise diminished. "GIVE THE JACKET BACK! NOW!"

"What's going on?" One of the teachers arrived. Yves didn't know his name, but he'd seen him in the halls.

"This girl stole my sister's jacket -- my grandmother had it made specially for her. And now she won't give it back. I want her arrested."

The teacher leaned away from Yves, shocked. "Arrested?"

"That's what they do to thieves, right?"

"Give me the jacket." The teacher held out a hand.

The girl, who'd been petrified and gaping at Yves from the first shout, unfroze and stumbled back a step. "It's not what he's saying," she exclaimed, dropping her bag from her shoulder and slipping off the jacket. "I just borrowed it!"

"Strange customs on Earth -- I never knew borrowing involved forcing someone to give you their belongings," Yves said loudly. "I always figured it involved asking politely."

The teacher took the jacket, examined Yves briefly, then looked around. "Where's your sister, young man?"

"I'm here." Amy had come over to watch; she stepped up and gave the teacher a tentative smile. "Can I have my jacket?"

The teacher eyed the collar, then her. "Name?"

"Amy Picard. I know it says Troi. That's because my grandmother -- it's a long story. But I got it on Betazed, and my name there is Amia Troi. We have dual citizenship."

"I see. I suggest that you keep track of your belongings, Amy Picard-Troi." The teacher handed her the jacket.

"I was wearing it. Amanda shoved me into the bathroom and took it from me, and her friends helped." Amy shrugged into her jacket, which fit her like a glove.

"She's lying! She loaned it to me," Amanda cried.

"I don't think so," Yves said. "But you can keep saying it, if it makes you feel better. Leave my sister alone." Yves glanced across the crowd. "There's Maman, we'd better go, 'Mia."

Amy took his arm and walked with him through the crowd. A lot of the other kids smiled at them. Mal ran to catch up to them, closely followed by Jajihal and Paul.

"That was inspired," Jajihal exclaimed, stopping with them on the sidewalk near the flitter. "Amanda deserved that."

Mal said nothing, which was completely unlike him. Yves didn't have time to question it; Maman stood beside the open passenger door of the flitter, arms crossed. The twins peeked out of the back seat.

"This is my friend Jajihal," Yves said, pointing. "And Paul. We're doing a project together for history."

"Nice to meet you," Maman said, smiling pleasantly. "What sort of project?"

Yves glanced wildly at Jajihal. He caught the hint. "We're supposed to build a model of a famous starship from the twenty-third century, and write a report on what it contributed to history and how it affected present day life."

"That should be interesting. Almost as interesting as what you were doing just now -- but you can tell me on the way home, Yves."

Amy practically dove into the back seat with the twins. Yves shrugged at his friends and sidled past Maman to drop into the passenger seat.

Maman usually didn't bother with the autopilot, but she set it this time. As the flitter hummed and waited for the road to clear, she turned to eye Yves. The demand for explanation was implicit in her expression.

"That girl stole Amy's jacket. I was getting it back."

"And?"

Yves swallowed. "If I'd gone straight to a teacher I would have been even less popular. I demanded the jacket back loud enough to draw a teacher's attention."

"What were you lying to him about?"

Amy leaned forward between the front seats. "He told the teacher that the jacket was hand made, on Betazed."

"I was trying to make it sound more valuable."

Maman stared, both brows raised slightly, until Yves was so anxious he couldn't differentiate anyone's emotions. "Sometimes I have the feeling we've over-educated you in some areas," she said finally.

The flitter moved away from the curb and slowly merged into traffic. Cordelia yelped, a scuffle ensued, and as they turned left at the end of the block, things settled down again. Maman sighed heavily.

"I have some news," she said. Yves relaxed; she'd moved on, so no harm done. "Your father will be home by the end of next week."

The excitement in the car swamped Yves in a few moments of ecstasy. "So we should make plans to be at friends' houses," Amy said. "At least half the weekend, anyway?"

Yves laughed, though her reminder sparked some of the same nervousness Amy felt -- being an empath wasn't always easy at home, especially when it involved the second-hand experience of their parents having sex.

Maman sank back in her seat, smiled, and shook her head slowly, putting a hand to her forehead. "I found the barrier generator last night and set it up."

"I don't think it will be enough." Yves knew that the barrier, really a field of low intensity ionic radiation, was deliberately weak so as not to pose a health risk. It was useful in maintaining privacy under most circumstances, but he knew Maman could still "hear" through it if she focused.

Maman sighed. "You could all go visit Tom and Beverly, if you wish. I'm certain that it would be most comfortable for you that way."

"Yeah, Oregon should be far enough." Yves couldn't stop grinning.

"I'll leave it to you to explain to your father why you'll be gone, however." Maman dropped her hand and smiled slyly.

"Amy can do it."

Amy's arm darted up and her fist bounced off Yves' shoulder. "We won't have to. I think he'll figure it out when he starts kissing her and we all run for the door."

"He's been gone a long time," Yves observed. "Does it get worse -- I mean, does it get more intense, if he's been gone longer? Maybe we should stay with Tom for a week?"

Maman laughed at his teasing. Yves, stunned for a second by the sound of it, joined her -- it reminded him how long it had been since they'd heard her laugh, and better to let himself be swept along on sensed joy and amusement than for her to notice his surprise.

The evening was consumed by necessary chores -- homework, cleaning the bathroom, dinner, and then a discussion of reapportioning housework. The house required more maintenance than quarters on a ship, and now that they'd lived there for a while, some things needed adjustment. Yves noticed the twins bickered less than usual during the meeting. Everyone was in a better mood. Amy agreed far too quickly to dig up flowerbeds in the courtyard and replant with flowers better suited to the area.

At the conclusion of the meeting, Amy went off to research flowers appropriate for the climate and the twins went into the kitchen for something to drink. Yves stayed in his chair, across the dining room table from Maman.

"Something on your mind?" she asked, as if she didn't already know.

"What's it like, being _hajira_? Other than what I can sense, I mean."

She went still, her hands resting together on the table in front of her, and Yves couldn't understand the trepidation he sensed from her. He waited, and slowly the sensation eased until he barely felt it. Maman's head tilted slightly.

"Is there a particular reason you ask that?"

"I guess I want to know so if it happens I'll recognize it. I don't know anything beyond what I've sensed."

"You want to know what it's like firsthand," she half-asked. "Do you suspect that you are, or that you're likely to be?"

Yves planted his feet against the floor and pushed, lifting the front legs of his chair a few inches. It gave him something to do besides fidget. "I just wonder about it."

"Is this about Isha?"

He stared at his knee and counted stitches along the seam of his pants. Sometimes counting helped distract him enough to diminish his own strong emotional reactions.

"This is easier if you talk about what's bothering you."

"You said if I had questions I could ask. I'm just asking -- we're hybrids like you are, it could happen, I just wanted to be prepared. That's all."

"I hate to sound restrictive, but you're too young to think like that, Yves."

He laced his fingers, put his hands on his head, and looked across the table at her. "You said things wouldn't be the same for us, because we're hybrids. That we couldn't predict how we would be, so we'd just do the best we could to understand."

Maman leaned forward, dropping her gaze to the backs of her hands. Now she was worried. "_Hajira_ isn't something you need to think about. What you feel now is natural, expected, and it's nothing you need to worry about defining -- it's part of the maturation process. It doesn't mean that Isha or any of the other girls you meet will be someone you bond with."

"But it could happen with someone."

He regretted bringing it up. Maman had been better, but now she looked like she might cry again. "Please trust me on this, Yves. A bond is not eternal, nor is it truly binding. It happens with humans and with Betazoids, and Betazoids experience different levels of bonding -- more intense, more tangible, sometimes permanent, sometimes more fragile. I know you've learned about different kinds, and what they tend to be like. But all of that information is based on the experiences of others, and yours, if you ever experience one, may be completely different because, as you say, you're a hybrid."

"If a bond isn't binding -- but you and Papa -- "

"Your father isn't the only person I've ever bonded with."

Yves wasn't prepared for it. Between the shock and the dread and dismay he sensed from Maman, he started to feel somewhat nauseated. "Who?" he blurted.

"That doesn't matter. Do you have any more questions?"

"I guess not."

"Oh, Yves." She put her head in her hands, elbows on the table, eyes shut. "This is difficult for you, I know. It was difficult for me. This time between childhood and adulthood, when you have the awareness but not the first-hand experience of so many emotions -- your father and I are different."

"I know. I've been told over and over -- "

"No, _petit,_ you do not know. You have been told. You were on Betazed for a short period of your life and in that time you associated with Betazoid children, some of them hybrids, most not. You were with your grandmother who isn't normal by anyone's frame of reference. You do not know of any bond but ours, and we are not like anyone else." She opened her eyes and seemed to want to drill it into his head with the intensity of her stare. "When your father gets home, if you have any more questions you may ask them. In the meantime, come help me clean out the study so we can use it for a guest room."

He obeyed, trying to ignore her pain, carrying boxes and rearranging stacks so everything fit in the library next door. Eventually the turmoil and anxiety she felt decreased. Maman opened the window to let in fresh air. The smells of damp earth and something cooking drifted in; the sprinklers were on in the yard, and the neighbors must be making a late dinner.

"We're putting a convertible sofa in that corner, and a small table. That should be enough room. The furniture will be delivered tomorrow."

"Who's coming?"

"Well, your father will be promoted week after next, in an official ceremony complete with pomp, circumstance and media coverage. Commander LaForge will be coming from Utopia Planitia, Data will have his teaching assistants cover his classes at MIT, Worf will be here with his son Alexander, and Captain Riker will arrive by shuttle some time this weekend. Your grandmother may or may not be here, depending on whether she likes your father this week. I'm guessing that at some point someone will need a place to stay."

Yves picked up the last box from the corner and glanced around at the bare walls. "Are we getting bookshelves, too? I could get the twins to help me unpack some of these boxes tomorrow night. It would make the room less empty."

"That's a good thought, Yves. I'll see what I can do." Maman touched his head, letting her hand drift down the back and come to rest on his shoulder. "Thank you for your help. It's late now, you should get some sleep."

She was right; he hadn't noticed the time, and yawned as he said good night. All was quiet on his side of the house. The doors to Pierre's and Cordelia's rooms were closed; as he passed Pierre's he could hear his brother snoring. Amy's door was open but she too was asleep.

Yves changed into pajama bottoms and pulled on a comfortable shirt. Fidele, already reclining at the foot of the bed, thumped his tail; Yves patted his head. "Good boy, 'dele. Time for bed."

But, sleepy as he was, it wasn't. He couldn't get comfortable. Sighing, he headed for the kitchen for warm milk and stopped at the atrium door, sensing Maman was in a different location than expected. The light from a window was enough for him to see Maman sitting in the swing outside. He pressed his nose against the sliding door and studied her through the trans-aluminum. She didn't turn her head, but raised a hand and flicked her fingers -- come here.

The fall nights were getting cooler. He danced barefooted across the cold patio tiles and around the end of the swing, and Maman lifted the edge of the blanket for him to slide in with her. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." She looked pale in the moonlight, and wore her hair loose over her shoulders. "I was just looking for the stars."

"Moon's half full, though." It hung overhead, to the right, lighting the square of sky visible from their courtyard.

"But I know they're out there."

They sat for a while, the swing sighing as it moved, Maman occasionally pushing with her foot to keep it going. The drip lines hissed softly as they came on to water the potted plants and flowerbeds.

"I'm sorry."

"Maman?" Yves opened an eye. He'd fallen into a sleepy haze, leaning up against Maman's shoulder.

"I wish I could answer all your questions."

"Why does it hurt you so much, having to be so far from Papa?"

She sighed and looked at the sky. "I don't know. There have been theories -- your father asked a Betazoid doctor about it, even. But it's different each time we're separated this way."

"Doesn't it happen to other bonded people?"

"Not that I've been able to discover. Not the way it happens to us. There are studies and papers written on the nature of Betazoid bonding, if you're truly seeking information -- I don't expect you'll find any real answers."

"Because you've looked yourself." Yves pushed his cheek against the blanket until he felt the bone of her shoulder. "Grandmother said you always asked questions she couldn't answer."

"I did, indeed. Though I suspect that sometimes she simply didn't want to answer. If she finds an issue difficult, she refuses to talk about it. I always called it the 'mud bath distraction.'"

Yves chuckled. It was true.

"Go to bed. It's going to be a busy week."

"Not until you do."

When she stood, he got up with her and wrapped the blanket over her shoulders. She kissed his cheek. "Good night, _petit_."

"Good night, Maman." He watched her go through the sliding door to her bedroom before heading back in to get his drink.

\-------------  
_  
Yves,_

You sound less upset. I'm glad to hear you've made more friends. I think you will find it easier from here forward.

As to your questions about bonding and so forth. . . . I can understand why you have questions, and I also understand why your mother is having difficulty answering. You may find it easier to get your answers when I come home; at that point it will be much less painful for either of us to discuss it with you.

I hope that you are helping Pierre with his math. He sounded a little panicked in his last message. On that point, could you please reinforce with the twins that one message a day is fine, but three or four each in addition to the ones from the rest of you is too much for poor old Papa to handle on top of his job, which is quite stressful at the moment.

Thank you for the pictures of the house and the report on the vineyards. Your mother assigning you the task of managing the winery update for me was inspired on her part -- or perhaps she preferred to sit on the porch with a cool glass of tea? Which I hope she did. Her current position has its own pressures and stressors.

I am proud of you, Yves.

\-------------

Things were manageable for three days. Lunch periods and some study time, were spent with Jajihal, Paul, Mal, and another boy named Stephen, who they'd invited to work with them on the history project. Amy showed up at lunch time with another girl, Kerrie, and tried to regain Jajihal's interest, but when he didn't respond in kind she and Kerrie went their way.

On Friday, Yves packed a change of clothing in his bag, as he would go home with Malcolm for the weekend. He almost wished he'd called it off; if he'd known Papa would be home sooner than expected, he might have postponed it longer. Remembering that Mal had mentioned having an advanced computer sim set, Yves chose several of his chips containing games that he might be able to import, if the base unit at the Reeds' house were up to the task.

His dog walked him out to the garage. "I'll see you in a couple of days, 'dele."

"I shall look forward to it." The hound sat down in front of the step leading into the house, beat his tail against the floor, and when Yves got in the flitter Fidele went back in the house.

"Remember your manners at the Reeds'," Maman said, frowning -- not at him, he realized, but at Pierre, as she issued an order telepathically. Pierre came racing out, slammed the door, and Maman got out briefly to hold the back of her seat as he leaped into the back seat. Their sisters sent up a chorus of 'ow' and 'hey' until the three of them settled.

"By this afternoon we will have a bigger vehicle," Maman announced in the tone of voice Amy referred to as 'the Voice of Goddess.'

School dragged for hours, though Yves did lose himself in the implementation of their group project for a while. He found himself instructing the other group members to 'hold this,' 'move that just a bit,' and 'keep this in place while I . . .." They were about half done with the model, a scale replica of the_ Farragut_ of Kirk's era, when Gramere called a halt and instructed the class to go back to their desks after putting their projects in one of the cupboards.

Mal practically floated out of the classroom at the end of the day. "We've got the best one," he exclaimed. "Did you see the one Joel and Kari and Antonia are doing? It's not even from the right century!" And before Yves could answer, he babbled on. "Mom said she would barbecue tonight and let us have ice cream sundaes for dessert. And my brother will be home from the Academy."

"That's great," Yves said, unsure but acknowledging Malcolm's excitement.

Outside, they joined the milling, excited kids flowing out to meet parents or walk home. Yves waved at his family, sitting in the new twice-as-large flitter with Amy about to sit in front, and went up the street following Malcolm to a flitter not unlike the one Maman had just traded in. Mrs. Reed wasn't anything like he expected; she smiled, and while she greeted them pleasantly, Yves could tell she wasn't happy.

It wasn't what she was doing, he guessed. She chatted with Mal about the project, how the ship model was coming along and how he wanted to do another model for fun, maybe the _Enterprise_ series from Constitution class forward, Beneath the façade of polite interest something else went on. Yves thought she must have a lot on her mind; he'd sensed similar tension from his father when he'd been strategizing his way through an important mission. The more Yves thought about it, the more similarities he found. Mrs. Reed wasn't his father, wasn't nearly so determined or focused, but he was certain there were things bothering her.

This time, however, he wouldn't upset anyone by asking. He answered questions and described a model he'd done of a Klingon warbird, how he'd been able to ask questions of his 'uncle' Worf as to what colors he should use for the hull markings and Worf's detailed letter describing what symbols he should use to spell out the name of his model and how to chant over the vessel upon its completion to ensure the warbird would be valorous in battle. Mal thought this was funny, then wanted to hear the chant.

The Reeds' house was huge. Yves got out, dragging his bag out after, and stared for a few seconds until Mal's excited question about whether Worf ever came to Earth, and what were the chances of meeting him, and where did Yves want to sleep, in the spare room or in Mal's room on the floor.

"I don't know, wherever," Yves said, following Mal up the path that snaked up a landscaped lawn to the front door. The house looked like it must have been built across two lots; it was literally twice the width of most of the houses in Yves' neighborhood. White walls, with tan trim around the windows, and a darker shade of tan on the roof. And an automated garage -- Mrs. Reed walked behind them up to the house, as the double-wide garage door opened and the flitter drifted inside.

Yves kept shaking himself as he followed Mal down a long hallway to the right -- the foyer, the living room beyond, and the back yard visible through the clear back wall of the house stunned him with its resemblance to a museum Maman had taken them to shortly after coming to Earth. Tables gleamed silver and several statues sat on the floor, interspersed with stylish furnishings in white. One statue seemed to be a six-foot abstract of a standing man with his arms raised as if about to catch something. The hallway was mostly bare, with single portraits of family members hanging here and there, and Mal's door was third on the right.

"You can leave your bag here for now. The bathroom's across the hall. Want to go check the computer, see if your games will work?"

"Sure." Yves dropped his bag and extricated the handful of isolinear models from the side pocket. He glanced around at Mal's spotless room and trailed after Mal again, down the hall to the end and through a door there. The computer room had a long crescent of a sofa, this time a dark gray, and a mottled gray/white carpet. A variety of game controllers -- helmets, gloves, boots, wristlets, sleeves and cuffs -- were scattered around on the floor between the sofa and the console, which stood in the very center of the otherwise empty room. The walls had scuffs and an occasional tear on them.

Mal took the first module Yves handed him and went to drop it in the console, touch a few keys, then picked up a helmet. He grinned at what he saw. "This is great!"

While Mal fumbled with some gloves, Yves found another pair and put them on, then put on a helmet himself. Redman's Folly. Yves smiled. He'd been playing this with various crew members and friends since he was five. The demo was running, providing a view out the cockpit of the drone as it wove through tunnels. Yves gestured with his fingers to bring up the menu and selected a space simulation, involving an asteroid belt and a few one-man fighters of indeterminate origin, intended to be game pieces rather than representations of actual species. The sim set him up with the drone, and he felt the control yoke in his hands, the buttons under his thumbs and two fingers of each hand, with the toggle for the boost thruster just centimeters from his right pinky.

He explained the controls to Mal, then the scenario. Defend the sector from the larger alien vessels using drones they were controlling remotely. They had six drones apiece and would find themselves in the launch tube if the active drone were destroyed.

Mal went through the usual beginner's progression from running into the launch tube walls, to losing control just outside the ship and crashing into the hull, to making it into the asteroid field and plowing into a rock not once but three times. On the sixth drone Mal actually made it some distance into the asteroids but smashed himself into a large spinning rock when he overcorrected, as the first alien vessel appeared in front of them. Then Mal was left to wait while Yves, still flying his first drone, engaged the enemy. His shields flared under fire, his drone wove and dipped and skimmed a large asteroid to duck behind it and pop out at an unexpected angle to fire at the enemy's port engine. Then Yves reset the game to the beginning.

Three tries later, Mal was able to fly his drone without incident, to dodge asteroids and then enemy ships, but his movements remained unrefined and at times erratic. An alarm sounded and the game froze. Yves pulled off the helmet, confused, and found that Mal had done the same.

"It's something my mom did. The computer's set to pause for fifteen minutes every two hours, to give us a break."

Yves nodded. "Want something to drink?"

"Naw, I'm going to the bathroom. If you want something, the kitchen's at the other end of the house."

It was, indeed, and Yves had to wander through the living room, across the deep white carpet and between soft white chairs, and up two steps to the dining room with its white tiled floor and silver-and-glass dining room table and chairs. Beyond that, he found the kitchen through a sliding door that opened as he approached.

Mrs. Reed sat at a round table at the far end, in a nook. It seemed she was surrounded by flowers and shrubbery until Yves realized the nook was enclosed in more transaluminum. Everything here was white and silver; he hesitated, unsure of what to do and whether he dared leave fingerprints anywhere.

"Yves," Mrs. Reed exclaimed, noticing him at last. She brought her glass with her and went to the replicator. "What could I get you? Are you enjoying yourself?"

It was a nice attempt, but it felt completely false. He'd interrupted whatever deep thoughts she'd been having, as she'd stared out at her backyard. "I just was -- I don't know if you might have ebi'lan tea?"

She frowned, perplexed, then asked the replicator. It produced a glass of the requested beverage. Mrs. Reed handed it to him, smiling in triumph. She had dark hair, short and straight, and she was thinner than he'd expected.

"Thank you, Mrs. Reed. Um . . .  it's about time for dinner? Is there anything I could help you with?"

Her stare unsettled him further. The shock wasn't warranted, he thought -- what was wrong with offering to help? Was she angry? He glanced around nervously, stepped backward, and considered escape. If she didn't answer --

"Thank you, but I'll be replicating dinner as soon as Raymond arrives. He's running late. I'll call you two when he gets here."

Yves nodded, smiled at her as best he could, and retreated with his tea to the game room, walking carefully to avoid spilling it in the museum of silver and white. Mal would be disappointed, he thought, that his mother had decided not to barbecue after all.

They played, Mal going through drone after drone, until Mrs. Reed had the computer pause in the middle of a run against a hostile space station, informing them Raymond would be there shortly. Mal threw down his helmet and gloves but said nothing as they went to the dining room. Mrs. Reed glanced up and smiled at them, then headed for the kitchen. Noting the one plate of food on the table, Yves followed her and was there to take the next one as she turned from the replicator. She met his eyes briefly, then squeezed his arm and smiled, more sincerely this time. He carried the plate and placed it between utensils on one of the placemats, went back for another, and the door chime echoed through the house as he brought the last one back. Mal shook himself out of his stunned observation of Yves doing his best to help and ran to answer.

"This is Yves Picard," Mal exclaimed when he brought in a young man in a cadet's white uniform. "This is my brother, Ray Norrell. He's in his second year at the Academy."

Ray smiled at Yves and held out a hand. He looked more like Mrs. Reed than Mal did, with a pointed chin and dark brown hair. His brown eyes were warmer than his mother's, however. "Nice to meet you, Yves. Mal's told me a lot about you."

Mal didn't talk about Ray so much, though. Yves thought better than to mention it. "You're going into sciences?" He glanced at the blue shoulders of Ray's uniform.

"Astrophysics. Tough subject, but I appreciate the challenge. What about you?"

They sat down together to eat. Ray seemed content to talk about Starfleet, his classes, his hope of finding a field placement in his third year, maybe on a science vessel. Mrs. Reed ate without comment. Neither of her sons seemed to think this was unusual, so Yves refrained from expressing any concern. Someone not speaking for so long was a red flag to him; sensing her ongoing state of frustration only confirmed that things weren't right. But, he reminded himself, this wasn't his family, and he wouldn't appreciate someone else expressing their opinion of his own family based on a single evening.

After dinner, Mal actually followed Yves' example in picking up his plate and utensils then returning it to the replicator. Mrs. Reed took hers and Ray's dishes, and Ray meandered off to the game room, where Yves and Mal found him when they returned to resume their sim.

"What's this?" Ray asked, staring at the wall display. The paused sim showed a split-screen view, with Yves' drone heads-up display on the left and Mal's on the right. They'd been firing at a weapons turret with alien fighters swooping around them.

"Redman's Folly. This is the training simulation used to acclimate pilots to controlling drone sleds. There are battle sims, sample acquisition sims, remote repair sims, and one where you have to replace hull plating along a warp nacelle."

Ray gaped at the screen. "I tried to sign up for this. They have this at the Academy but pilots get priority and the waitlist is months long. I was going to do a project, create a sim where I'm sampling some iridium with a drone."

'I can give you a copy of this, if you want," Yves said.

"How did you get this? Mal, do you realize this isn't just a game? This is a sim engine used by Starfleet!"

"Yves lived on the _Enterprise_ until a couple months ago, so I guess he got it there," Malcolm said, rolling his eyes. "Didn't I tell you his name was Picard?"

Ray stared at Yves as the impact of this stunned him. "Having the same name doesn't mean someone's related to -- so you're his son? Captain Picard, I mean?"

"Yes."

"So I guess you'll be applying at the Academy soon."

"I don't know yet. Probably." Yves didn't want to talk about it, especially given the way Ray continued to stare at him. "Want to play? It can handle another person -- we used to run it with ten people, on the ship's holodeck."

They played for hours, taking breaks when the computer forced them to, and Yves eventually lost interest -- he'd never played for so long before. He deliberately turned his drone into the nearest wall and rather than launch another, he took off his helmet and gloves, closed his eyes, and focused on his breathing for a while. When he opened his eyes again, he watched Mal and Ray flying their drones on the split screen, Empathy told him that both were tired, but overriding that with excitement. Maman had enforced a rule that sims were intended to last less than three hours for a reason -- she'd insisted that the crew needed to be ready to confront any crisis, not exhausted by prolonged exposure to simulated emergencies.

Neither of them seemed to notice he'd stopped. Yves left the game room and went to the bathroom, then wandered through to the kitchen to replicate something to drink. The house was mostly dark, and the furniture cast deep shadows, thanks to the moonlight coming through the clear back wall of the house. Mrs. Reed was probably in her bedroom, but Yves could tell she was still awake and thinking. And unhappy. He wondered if she were a case of clinical depression, something Maman had described to him. Deep-seated depression of the sort that perpetuated itself thanks to altered brain chemistry wasn't something he'd been exposed to, Maman had told him. But this seemed very much what she'd talked about.

But Maman had also said that he was not responsible for any adult's welfare, and that he shouldn't meddle. So he returned to the game room and sipped his water while watching Mal and his brother -- half-brother, actually, from Mrs. Reed's first marriage, as Ray had alluded to when mentioning that he actually lived with his father, who had a place closer to the Academy.

The following morning Yves woke up in the guest room, wondering where he was. He remembered quickly enough that he'd watched Mal playing Redman's Folly until early the next morning, given up, and at the next break in the action asked where he should sleep.

The clock on the wall said ten fifteen or so -- analog clocks were imprecise that way. It had to mean morning, as he'd gone to bed much later than that. He stumbled for the bathroom and found it unoccupied.

Mrs. Reed was in the kitchen already, sitting at the table in the nook with a cup of coffee, a vacant look in her eyes. "Good morning, Mrs. Reed," Yves said, going to the replicator. "Coffee, hot, with cream and sugar."

She watched him with more interest than she'd shown the night before. He turned with his cup, uncertain of where to go with it. Mrs. Reed gestured for him to come. "Ray tells me you're a very good pilot already. One of the advantages of growing up on a ship."

"Um . . .." He drank coffee to stall for time.

"He had to be up early this morning. He said he had to participate in a martial arts tournament." Mrs. Reed sipped from her cup. "We could attend if we want, he said. It's an all-day event."

"Ray's not a bad pilot, either. Mal caught on really fast, with the sim, I mean."

Her smile wasn't pleasant. "Malcolm likes his games, but he has no interest in Starfleet. His father will be disappointed."

"Why?" Yves blurted, then realized after the fact that he should have held his tongue.

"Your father won't be disappointed if you don't go to the Academy?" She made it sound like such an unbelievable notion, that any officer would entertain the thought of their children not following the same path.

"No. He's told me over and over that he hopes I consider all sorts of careers before deciding. So did Maman."

Mrs. Reed stared at him with a flat expression.

"But I'll probably end up in Starfleet, whether I go to the Academy right out of school or wait until I'm older, because Earth doesn't feel like home to me," Yves babbled. "I guess it's like they say, people prefer what they're used to, and my whole life I was sort of in Starfleet by default. I had to sit with my brother and sisters in our quarters through every red alert, and go through evacuation drills, and we were taught what we should do if our section suddenly breached or experienced power failure. Maman had to be on the bridge with Papa, or on an away mission."

"That must have been frightening," Mrs. Reed said, her tone as flat as her expression.

"I was more afraid to be in school here."

She sighed, looking down into her cup. "I suppose you felt like an outsider?"

"When I first went to class, I was. Mal's a good friend, and we play ball with Jajihal and some others, and it's starting to feel different. But it would be easier if Papa were here."

She smiled again, bitter and thinking about some old, deep hurt; Yves had sensed that in others and could recognize it well enough. "Did you know my husband served on the same ship with your father?"

"No, ma'am."

Weary amusement at that, but she lapsed into the bitterness again. "That was before he was assigned to the _Enterprise_. My husband was a lieutenant. He's a commander now, on the _Turing_."

"Oh." Yves tried to think of an easy way of getting out of the conversation without appearing rude. But Mrs. Reed turned her head and appeared to be more interested in the back yard, and her mood shifted; perhaps he didn't need a graceful exit. She didn't even look at him when he left the kitchen.

Mal was coming out of his room when Yves reached the hall. "Hey, Yves. What's that?"

"Coffee."

"Whoa, really?" He held out a hand. Yves passed him the cup and he guzzled most of what was left, dribbling some on his bare chest. He made a face and shoved the cup back at Yves. "AH!"

"Not used to coffee, I guess."

"Nah. I'm going to take a shower." Mal wiped his hands on his black pajama pants and crossed the hall to the bathroom. "Want to go to Ray's tournament? He's a brown belt and he's going to spar."

"Uh, okay. Mal?"

Mal stopped just inside the bathroom door and leaned out.

"Is your mother okay? She seems . . . sad." Not exactly that, but Maman had said that sometimes being less than accurate was useful in confronting what appeared to be status quo.

"Sad?" Mal blinked. "She doesn't seem any different to me. Is this a Betazoid thing? You can tell something's wrong?"

Yves held up his hand, as if that would prevent Mal's rising panic. "I didn't say anything was wrong -- I just sensed -- well, I think it's just that -- " He paused to get himself under control again, so he wouldn't be answering in a panic. This mattered too much to just say any old thing. "Maman told me that 'wrong' is subjective, and that I shouldn't label anything I sense that way. I don't know your mom, and I don't have any other data to compare her current emotions to -- so I don't really know what's going on with her. That's why I asked."

"Oh." Mal still radiated confusion. "So does that mean she's upset?"

"It means she's different than what I would have thought, but if she seems all right to you . . . it's probably just different, not anything to worry about."

"Okaaaay," Mal said. "So we're good."

"Now that I checked with you, yeah. I'll just wait in your room while you shower, okay?"

It seemed to work well enough. Mal got in his shower, and Yves sat in his friend's immaculate room, wondering how the same guy who carried old dirty gym shirts around in his bag for weeks managed to get his room so clean. When Mal came back, wrapped in a huge blue towel, he cheerily told Yves there was a clean towel on the counter for him.

But as Yves reached the door, Mal asked, "You said you sense emotion. How complicated can that really be? Sad is sad, isn't it?"

Yves leaned and thumped his head on the doorframe. "It wasn't sad. It was sort of . . . sad in a kind of accepting sort of way, like someone who lost an argument. Like, maybe she argued with someone yesterday and it sort of lingered, the way you were mad at me for so long."

"Or like she argued with my dad the last thousand times they talked." And now Mal was sad, in the straightforward way of someone who had some genuine reason to be. "That's nothing new. But I didn't realize she felt like that for so long. The last time they talked was weeks ago."

"Your dad's gone a lot, isn't he?"

"The _Turing_ hasn't been back to Earth in a year, at least. And Dad doesn't take a lot of leave. Mom took me to Risa over the summer and we had a few days with him there."

Yves glanced back at Mal. "That's not fair."

"It's okay. It's what I'm used to." Mal shrugged. "Go take your shower."

\-------------

_My dear admiral,_

Did that jar you as much as it did me? Something for us to adjust to, as if we didn't have enough already for which to compensate.

I thought Yves took a great stride toward normalcy this weekend -- which he did, albeit not so great as I'd expected. He went to Malcolm's for the night, and came home the following afternoon, claiming he wished to help his siblings with chores and make plans for your first weekend in our new home. His excuse was truthful enough, I suppose, but there was far more to it than that. After Mrs. Reed dropped him off, he hugged me for far longer than normal and was obviously very shaken, and upset because of his emotional outburst, which of course led to the usual spiral of anxiety as we all inquired after his welfare at that point. There is nothing so overwrought as a crowd of empaths outdoing each other.

It seems Malcolm's mother is suffering the Starfleet wife blues. Yves sensed her depression immediately and worried after her health, and did a marvelous job of managing his own impulse to help, well enough that he thought he could hint at Malcolm and determine whether her condition was normal or not. Which he did, and now Malcolm appears to be worried about his mother. The two of them came inside briefly so I could meet her. We chatted about the boys and their school, and Malcolm kept watching the two of us intently -- and when Yves decompensated shortly after their departure and revealed his observations at the Reed home, it all made sense. Malcolm was looking to me for confirmation of what Yves told him. When I ignored her internal ongoing emotional state Malcolm continued to be worried, but curious. He dragged Yves aside for a moment. I still don't know what was said, but Malcolm left angry and Yves was so upset he didn't even try to run to his room.

Which is where he is now, being miserable. I suppose this proves that Starfleet's screening procedures work well enough; we never ran into anything so distressing as this on our ship, Yves spent most of his time with his friends and their parents and siblings, and though he certainly had frequent awkward encounters, he never experienced anything like this.

I was so very close to declaring their time at Mercy Hills at an end and helping the four of them with preparatory school applications. But we agreed to work with them as much as we could, to help them make their own choices as much as possible and deal with the consequences, and so I refrained with the intent to discuss it with all four of them tomorrow night, after dinner. I will give Yves the opportunity to call Malcolm and I will help Amy work through her anger. She found out one of the girls she felt she was getting to know better had a party this weekend and did not invite her.

In other words, I will resist the temptation to do what's easiest for me. I will be the responsible mother I did not have, and the gentler, compromising but firm father you did not have, and wait for you to get here to help me with that. But the warp engines are offline, and impulse engines are failing, and I'm feeling rather like a shuttle facing down a warbird at the moment.

Which you should not interpret as a plea for help, of course. I wouldn't expect you to drop everything and rush to the rescue. There are emergency measures I haven't yet deployed. I'm still considering having Tom and Beverly make good on their offer of assistance. In fact, I think I'll call them tonight. Perhaps we could all spend the day together tomorrow. And if Yves can get Malcolm to agree, perhaps he'll come too. I think they're good for each other.

I have a guest room ready, by the way. I'm not certain what Natalia or anyone else will be doing once Enterprise _gets here, but I imagined that it might be helpful to have it available._

We have responsible and respectful children. We have no real concerns other than helping them through the immediate crisis of adjusting to life on Earth. I know that this is important for numerous reasons; they need the grounding here as well as on Betazed, and they need to expand their social skills in dealing with people other than Starfleet officers.

I just need to keep reminding myself of this and not consider one of those ships Admiral Cusack keeps bringing up. He can't even offer me one himself. He's testing me, for whatever reason; perhaps he thinks it's just a joke. Needless to say, I'm having my own lesson in adjusting to a new social circle. I'm beginning to feel positively Klingon when Cusack shows his face in the fifth floor lounge.

I miss you horribly. I love you. I wish that I could hold you. Commander Troi holds her tongue and endures; that dark-eyed woman you married wants you to hop on the next transwarp ship for Earth, no matter that Starfleet hasn't perfected that yet.

As for Mme. Picard, she is ashamed to admit that she went for a walk in the orchards while we were in France, and lost herself completely. Which I hadn't mentioned until now because I felt it best to save the smile for when it was most needed. You can picture me running through the neighbor's Orleans Reinette trees in whichever dress pleases you, searching for the way back to our porch where you are waiting patiently with a bottle of wine and a jaunty salute with whichever appendage you deem appropriate.

Wishing you a safe and uneventful journey home,  
Deanna

\-------------

I've received nothing from Yves, so I would guess that either he's had enough intervention for one day, or he's not so upset as he was the last time Malcolm became angry. Or perhaps in the hours it's taken me to get to your message and respond, it's been resolved -- I shall hope for the third option.

You know that if you were to consider 'one of those ships' I would be there to support that endeavor. Wherever 'there' would be. Starfleet needs good captains, you know. I'm sure we'll be hearing from admirals who could indeed offer you command.

You also know exactly what your parting image would do. 'Jaunty salute,' indeed. I shall shortly honor you with a one-gun salute in the shower.

Bad, bad Betazoid.

\-------------

"So I hear you kids are having a tough time in school," Beverly said, stirring the huge pitcher of iced lemonade.

Yves picked a cracker out of the middle of the platter of appetizers she'd just replicated. "You could say that."

They were standing in the bright kitchen in the Glendenning house, and if Yves looked out the wide windows over the white-tiled countertop, he could see Jean-Pierre and Cordelia trying to get a kite in the air with Tom's help. Although how much help he really gave seemed uncertain; Yves hadn't seen him do anything more than hold the kite and shout encouragement while the twins ran back and forth.

"When Wes was your age, we were on the _Enterprise_. He had a tough time adjusting, too."

"I didn't know he was an empath." Yves carried the appetizers out of the kitchen and headed for the front of the house, down the long dim hallway and past the stairs.

Beverly followed him with the pitcher and a stack of glasses, putting them on the same table near the window at the back of the room. "Your son doesn't appear to be himself today," she remarked lightly. "I'm used to less sarcasm than that."

Maman, who'd been lounging on an overstuffed green sofa in front of the empty fireplace, sat up and glared at Yves. "Sorry," he said automatically, then repeated it with more sincerity as he met Beverly's eyes. She smiled sympathetically and rubbed his shoulders, finishing with a pat.

"But you're right that it was apples and oranges, Yves. I don't quite know what to say about the difficulties of empathy."

"I know."

"I do know you'll work it all out, though. You have a lot more self assurance than most boys your age -- the ones I've met, anyway." Beverly took a few appetizers on a napkin and poured herself a glass of lemonade. While she went to a wingback chair, Yves poured two more glasses and brought one to Maman.

"So, why are you living in this old house, again?" he asked, slumping into the other wingback chair. The two chairs faced each other across a small rug. "Did you decorate it? There's a lot of green."

Beverly sighed, but went along with his change of subject patiently enough. "Tom's sister decorated it. This house has been in his family for at least six generations. Since I'm a certified pilot and we have the flitter, commuting to Starfleet Medical isn't enough to prevent our staying here, and Tom wanted to take his turn running the greenhouses. Which isn't unlike your father hanging onto the vineyards, you know. Both of them are intending to pass them along to the next generation."

Yves took a few swallows of lemonade, thinking about it. "I thought Lora wanted to be a doctor?"

"She does. That doesn't mean she won't also want to maintain this place. Your father's had help maintaining the vineyards for years, hasn't he?"

"Why don't you go find Amy?" Maman said.

Yves stared at her. Maman sat with her lemonade cupped between her palms, her hands resting on her thighs, slightly hunched forward. On the way to Oregon, to Tom and Beverly's house, she'd been subdued; the mood had caught all of them. Only the twins responded to Tom's abundant cheer and playfulness. Amy disappeared on a walk somewhere, and Yves could only think about Mal's anger.

"Would you rather go home?" Maman asked, adding a firm scolding tone to her voice.

"I don't know what I want." He stood up, swirling his lemonade. "But I'll go find Amy."

He found his sister at the far end of the greenhouses, puttering along in the shadow of the fourth one. Fidele followed her, heeling precisely as she circled a small patch of dirt.

"Maman sent me looking for you," Yves announced. She didn't even look at him. "What's got you so down?"

"I think it's us, Yves. Maman's getting worse, even though Papa's coming home soon. She got us all out of bed to come here and didn't even ask if we wanted to -- she's not doing well." Amy glanced at him just long enough for him to see the tears on her face.

"I know everyone's feeling pretty miserable, but it's not really our fault. We're doing the best we can. She knows that. I don't think she blames -- "

"I didn't say she blames us. I said she's getting worse. I can't believe I spent hours yesterday crying about some stupid girl -- "

"Half an hour," Yves put in, but she hardly paused.

" -- and her stupid party, and it wasn't even a party, just four people and some sort of game I probably wouldn't like, anyway." Amy stopped walking and came to stand with him on the grass. Fidele continued to walk in the same circle. "Oh, no. Not again."

"Fidele, come here." Yves snapped his fingers a few times, trying to get the dog's attention. "I thought for sure after that last reset he'd be okay."

"Everything's going wrong. And once Papa's here, we're here for good."

Yves gave up on the dog and looked at her, wondering why she thought the decision hadn't already been made. "You mean, we're not here for good yet?"

She started to cry again. "I don't know -- maybe if he changes his mind, while he's still a captain -- "

"Maman's already got a promotion. You can't have two captains on a ship. Even if Papa could somehow un-accept his promotion, which I don't think is possible."

"This isn't fair! I don't want to stay here!" Amy folded her legs suddenly, dropping to the ground. She rearranged her skirt over her knees and tore the clip from her hair, letting it fall free.

Yves sat cross-legged with her. There was nothing more to say. Behind them, Fidele strolled around and around. In the distance, he heard Jean-Pierre's laughter; the kite, a bright blue octagon with the Federation insignia on it, soared high over the treetops.

"It's a good thing they got it in the air. Tom might have had to start climbing the trees and dropping it to get it off the ground."

"I don't suppose he'd help us get our lives off the ground, too."

Yves laughed at it, startling her. Then he considered it more seriously, and laughed again. "Have you asked him that?"

They sat in the shade and waited for Fidele to stop, listening to the far-off shouts of the twins and the hum of fans in the greenhouse. Birds seemed to be congregating in the nearby oak trees, singing and calling each other.

"I wish Maman would let us stay here and not go back to school."

Amy looked at Yves sharply. "I thought you were determined to stay at Mercy Hills."

"It feels like a war. If you make friends with the teachers, you lose the kids; if you try to make friends with the kids, you've got no one."

Amy stared. "Now you're really scaring me." Fidele came to them at last and sank to his stomach in the grass, laying his head in Amy's lap with a sigh. She stroked his head and neck as if comforting him. "So what happened at the Reeds?"

"I did so well! I didn't talk to Mrs. Reed about how bitter and angry she felt, and I didn't get all stupid in front of Mal's brother and babble about life on the _Enterprise_, and I didn't do anything Mal thought was weird. And then I thought, maybe I could just find out if it was all normal, with a single question. I shouldn't have asked. Now Mal's angry because Maman didn't say anything that confirmed it, and we came here so if he calls to talk about it today I won't be there."

"Hey, guys?" Tom came around the corner of the greenhouse, a bouquet of roses in his hand. "Let's go in the house."

"Why?" Yves asked.

"We're going to go sightseeing."

Amy ran ahead into the house. In the foyer, Beverly waited with the twins. Maman was somewhere upstairs, Yves thought, and Tom went up with the flowers and came down without them. Curious.

"Where are we going?" Yves asked.

"We're heading in to Portland, to find lunch and some entertainment. Don't worry about your mother. She's going to spend some time with a good book, and hopefully get some sleep." Beverly guided him after his siblings. "I examined her and diagnosed her with exhaustion due to stress-related insomnia. I promised her we'd spend the rest of the day with the four of you if she'd rest until we got back."

"I have to tell her -- "

"You can tell her when we get back." Beverly walked behind him, giving him no chance to run inside.

Yves let them impel him toward the flitter, focusing on a thought. [ Are you all right? ]

"Stop that," Beverly exclaimed. "I know what that look means." Amy balked at the side door of the flitter, getting her attention, and as Beverly sorted out a conflict with the twins over seating arrangements Yves received his reply.

[ Tired. Have fun. Don't worry. ]

Beverly ushered him into the back of the flitter and shut the door. The twins glared at Amy, who slumped with crossed arms; Yves leaned against the door to give Amy more room.

"I think we should go to the museum," Beverly said as Tom started the engine and did preflight checks.

"I was thinking the zoo might be fun." Tom glanced over his shoulder.

"We've never been to a zoo," Amy said. Yves realized she was right -- he'd read about them and heard about them from friends, but not seen one. The twins were excited.

Somehow, Yves didn't expect the crowds or the noise. Even before they left the flitter, which Tom landed expertly just a few moments after they took off -- the house might be out in the middle of nowhere, but fifty miles went by fast in the air -- Yves could tell there were lots of people. He glanced at his siblings and slid out the side door.

"I think we're here early," Tom commented as they gathered at the end of a line that began at the gate and ended at the road -- not a very long one, but there were several hundred people packed into the pavement, about twelve people wide and three times that length. There were six booths, though, so they were inside and walking before the twins could find something to argue about out of boredom. Tom chatted with them, as well, amazed that while they'd heard of a lot of animals they'd never seen more than a picture of them.

Outside, Yves had been unable to sense anything other than an overwhelming turmoil of emotion simmering away, no individual distinguishable from any other. Inside, as his group moved along with the crowd to the right, passing signs indicating they were on the way to see the reptiles and big cats, he could pick out sentient from animal, and even which animal when they came up to the tiger pit. Tiger Bay, the sign said, and people gathered on this side of a tall trans-aluminum wall to look in at the three tigers lazing on grass against a backdrop of jungle foliage and rock walls and in the corner a waterfall roared down into a pond. The biggest of the cats yawned, showing off a mouthful of teeth.

"How sad, being caged like that," Amy observed. Beverly hovered behind her, confused. Amy explained as if responding to that. "That tiger's hungry."

Beverly and Tom exchanged a wild look of dismay. They'd forgotten. "Oh, boy." Tom turned to Yves, who stood off to the right of the group. "This has 'trouble' written all over it. Your mom never happened to mention why you never went to zoos?"

"It never came up. Not a lot of opportunity to go to them in space, and we've been busy with other things since we've been on Earth. There's actually a zoo on Betazed but it's nothing like this. The animals are kept in more natural enclosures, with more space for them to run around."

"Maybe we should have gone to the museum instead," Beverly said, her hand on Amy's shoulder.

"I think we'll be all right. Maman taught us how to block out other people's emotions, and animals are less complicated than people."

The next exhibit contained lions. It looked bigger, with lots of dry grass and a tree in the center of the field. The male lions looked as bored as the tigers had; the females were pacing around, and once in a while one of them would moan loudly.

"She's looking for her cubs," Amy said.

"She's worried and looking for something, anyway," Yves replied.

Amy pointed at the small screen mounted on the otherwise transparent wall. "It says one of them just had cubs. They're not in the enclosure."

"That makes sense." Beverly crossed her arms and watched the pacing lioness. "She walks in such small circles. You'd think she would cover more ground, if she were looking for them."

"She probably doesn't want to go near the wall." Yves pointed. "Watch -- she'll get almost all the way over to the right and turn away at the last minute."

"The text says holographic technology has been used in this zoo to give the animals the illusion of being in the wilderness," Pierre said, watching the slowly-scrolling words on the screen. "But I'll bet they know exactly where the walls are."

"What are you talking about?" a tall woman asked. She stood a few paces to their right with a boy about Pierre's age.

"The animals feel frustrated," Yves said. "It's the sort of frustration I feel when I have to stay in my room and can't go anywhere. Claustrophobic, and a little angry. Trapped."

Amy frowned. "Where did Cordelia go?"

She was right -- Jean-Pierre was still in view, puttering down the single rail that kept people out of arm's reach of the trans-aluminum, but Cordelia was nowhere to be seen. Yves called out telepathically and Pierre and Amy winced; no response from Cordelia. Amy lunged as if to run off looking but Yves caught her arm.

"She probably went ahead of us," he said. "We'd know it if she were in trouble. We'll just keep walking and if we don't see her we'll ask for help."

They went past the lions and leopards, past a few exhibits containing smaller cats, and Yves marveled at the crowded pavement around them. So many people were walking through the zoo -- this was not unlike being at school, surrounded by more people than he could distinguish from one another.

"Yves?"

He realized just how odd he felt then, as he turned to respond to Tom's concern. "What?"

Tom frowned, which he didn't do often, and, placing his fingertips lightly between Yves' shoulder blades, propelled him along. They were following Beverly, who had an arm around Amy, and Pierre, who dodged pedestrians and gawkers as if he had a definite destination.

"Head feels funny," Yves commented at length.

"Uh huh. Verly, any sign of our missing girl?" Tom called, pushing Yves a little faster.

The paved path curved along the outskirts of the gorilla pen, or so the signs would have them believe. They had to walk around a large cluster of onlookers who were gathered to watch the section of the clear wall upon which the live feed of the animals was being projected, since the gorillas were disinclined to leave the dense rainforest foliage planted in patches around the exhibit. Traffic around the perimeter of the pen lessened as they walked. They found Cordelia standing alone at the railing, staring into the wall of foliage, tears streaming down her cheeks. A couple of teenagers going by glanced at her, then past her into the exhibit, but lost interest the minute they saw no animal in view. She appeared to be just a randomly-crying girl in a short white dress and flat-soled sandals, her long dark hair pulled into a ponytail that hung straight down her back.

Yves found his mind cleared quickly, now that they were close enough for him to sense Cordelia's difficulty. She seemed trapped in misery. He hurried forward, reaching her at the same time as Pierre.

"She's caught," Pierre said, unable to take his eyes off her face. Confusion wrinkled his brow.

"When you're just starting out, it's tough to avoid being caught up in really intense emotions of others." Yves peered into the leaves and shadows. "There's a gorilla right here somewhere. It's really depressed."

Mindful of the other people randomly strolling by, Yves grabbed Cordelia's arm and pinched. She flinched, spinning and wrenching her elbow away. Breathing hard, she glared at him for a few seconds, then blinked and shook her head as if coming out of a swimming pool.

"I think the museum might be more interesting than animals we can't see for the trees, eh?" Tom exclaimed brightly.

On the way out, it was easier to keep a clear head. Yves didn't have to be pushed and glared at Tom for trying, and he dropped his hand with a shrug and a grin. As the group reached the wide exit, monitored by a few smiling personnel who probably also kept people from sneaking in, Cordelia stopped walking.

"Why are we leaving?"

Beverly and Tom were at a loss, and looked at each other as if expecting help with it. Yves stepped in. "Are you forgetting the part where you were stuck in sync with some horribly depressed gorilla you couldn't even see?"

"But it doesn't have to happen again. Maman said -- "

"Maman has_range_," Yves exclaimed. "I'm surprised she hasn't shown up here by now to find out why you were so incredibly depressed for a while. That deep an emotion would wake her up if it came from one of us, even if she'd fallen asleep. And if she's supposed to rest, we should be avoiding the anger and depression. So if you're going to say she encourages us not to run away from difficulties, I get it, but there's something above and beyond that today."

"I don't understand why it was so depressed," Cordelia said plaintively. "I just wanted to -- "

"I know, but you shouldn't have gone so far by yourself, and you shouldn't let yourself get trapped like that." Yves gripped her hand briefly, doing his best to smile reassuringly. "It happens to all of us, when we're just trying to figure out empathy. Now you have to work on finding a way not to be overwhelmed to that point -- but not today, okay?"

Tom hurried them along, slowing only when they'd cleared the gates. "Where are we going now?" Jean-Pierre asked as they reached their vehicle. Tom keyed the remote to open the doors on the approach.

"I have a stop to make." Tom waited until all his passengers were in with the doors shut to get in himself.

"Pistils?" Beverly asked.

"Yep. I have another collection of images for his display."

"Is this a flower thing?" Jean-Pierre didn't have any interest in Tom's roses, and seemed to not understand why anyone would go through the trouble to grow flowers.

"It is indeed a flower thing, and it won't take long. We'll go visit OMSI afterward."

"What's an omzee?" Cordelia asked.

"The Oregon Museum of Science and Industry. You'll like it. No gorillas."

Tom flew them across town, for once slowly, pointing out different historic landmarks that had been around for a century or more. Yves looked out the window and thought about the poor animals, trapped in clear-sided pens that looked like home but didn't feel like it.

The flitter touched down on a street near a tall green house with brown trim. Around the house were fenced lots full of potted greenery. "This won't take long, if you guys want to wait," Tom said as he powered down.

"I want to come in." Yves reached for the door handle. Curiosity drove his siblings to follow his example -- not in the store, but in what Yves found interesting about it.

The zoo had been all new, all artificial and technologically up to date, and Pistils Nursery was not -- like Tom's house, it looked very old but well kept. Crumbling concrete steps leading up to the door looked to be the only thing needing repair. Yves followed Tom inside and across dark green carpet to a counter, where a tall bearded man stood.

"Well, Tom Glendenning," the man exclaimed. "And here I thought you'd sent your only daughter off to college?"

"My nieces and nephews -- a friend's children, actually, but they call me 'uncle' in three languages. Cordelia and Jean-Pierre, Amy, and Yves." Tom slapped Yves' shoulder. Amy retreated further to the right, to examine a collection of pinwheels of all sizes. The twins stared at the man. "This is Gray Mason, kids. He's one of the folks I sell roses to. And, here is an updated inventory for you." Tom handed over an isolinear module.

"Your uncle says 'sell roses' as if it's all he does. You know he was a captain in Starfleet?" Gray dropped the module in a slot on a flat pedestal and touched a panel, and a bouquet of white roses with red-tipped petals sprang up and hovered in midair.

"That's where we met him. So's our father." Jean-Pierre stared at a box kite hanging from the ceiling.

"That's my grandson's kite. I hung it up there to keep it out of the way."

"What are these?" Amy called out from another corner of the store.

The question led them on a tour, narrated by Gray and Tom, and ending outside in one of the lots. They learned what a 'garden gnome' was, and saw also garden Andorians, garden Bolians, and even a garden Vulcan with a little garden sehlat. Amy put on a great show of being upset that there were no garden Betazoids, pouting as she picked up the wood carving of the sehlat.

"Papa has one of those," Jean-Pierre announced. "Only smaller and made of sand."

"One of his keepsakes," Cordelia added. "I like this." She pointed at a brilliant red mobile of a bird with paper-thin wings that flapped and bobbed up and down in the breeze. There were six of them hanging from the trellis that arched overhead.

"This reminds me of Betazed, sort of," Yves said. "Grandma has all kinds of vines and shrubbery in her patio."

Tom stepped over the line of knee-high statues, the toe of his shoe just missing the Andorian's antenna. "Yeah, but these vines won't grab you."

"Nope, nothing but native greenery at my nursery," Gray said, lifting the red bird from its nail. "Here, Cordelia. A souvenir of Portland."

"Thanks!" Cordelia beamed as she accepted the gift. "I'll hang it in our garden near Maman's swing."

"We should get going, guys." Tom sighed at Amy, who clutched the sehlat to her chest. "Here we go with the eyes and the begging. Gray's not going to give that away, you know."

"But you could get it for me, Uncle Tom," she said in her sweetest, most annoying voice. Yves rolled his eyes. To his dismay, Tom caved in and went inside with Gray to finish the transaction.

"I don't believe you. Taking advantage of our dear uncle that way."

"Like he even needed the encouragement," Cordelia said, moving her bird's wings up and down.

"Apparently he did, because he didn't offer until she -- " Yves stopped when Tom came out with a bag. Since Amy still had the sehlat, it must be something extra.

And in the flitter, as they all settled in their seats and the doors slid shut, Tom reached in the bag, then tucked a white flower behind Beverly's ear. Their eyes met, and Yves glanced at his siblings in warning; let it be, let it happen, because this was not for them to interrupt. But he found he didn't have to warn. All three of them were staring at the floor mats, solemn and folding hands in laps. Yves recognized why, too, as he sensed what they surely did.

"Where are we going now?" Beverly's soft question corresponded with her remembering the four guests in the back seat, no doubt. Yves detected the shift of focus and then her dismay. He didn't look up from the floor to see what that was about.

"I miss Papa," Cordelia blurted, then started to cry again. Amy put her arm around her sister's shoulders.

"I think we'll go pick up a few groceries and go home," Tom said.

\-------------

_Papa,_

We're at Tom's today. It's been a long day, and a lot happened. Tom and Beverly said that we're welcome to stay if we want and seem to be worried, but I'm not sure if it's for us or for Maman. They won't talk to me about it. I wish I could understand what they're thinking sometimes, though I guess it's better that I don't. As much trouble as I'm having with empathy I think I'll leave telepathy alone.

First, there was the zoo. Cordelia found a depressed gorilla to latch onto, and it was like that time I couldn't stop obsessing about Ensign Morokai's death. She sort of got lost in its depression. Then we were leaving and a zoo veterinarian stopped us and wanted to know if we could tell him why the gorilla was depressed, and of course we don't really know that. And Tom took us to one of the nurseries that sell his roses, and got Cordelia and Amy a couple of things they liked, and a flower for Beverly, and then -- well, he gave it to her. And I guess humans have their own way of bonding. And it only reminded us -- Cordelia was the one who cried.

Anyway, I guess we all seem pretty pathetic. Maman didn't have much to say about what happened. We're all feeling pretty low. Sitting around eating chocolate ice cream doesn't appear to help. We helped Tom with some pruning and other stuff in the greenhouses for a while.

I have to go, Maman's calling. Guess we're going home. I'm not even really clear about why I'm sending this, other than just telling you how much we miss you.  
  
\-------------

Yves sat on his bed and watched Fidele, lying on the floor where he'd been deactivated. Which didn't make it interesting to watch him, but at the moment Yves was at a loss for what else to do.

"Are you ready for bed?" Maman peered around the edge of the open door.

"Yeah."

She came in, pushing the door the rest of the way open. "I know today was difficult."

"I don't have to -- "

"You have to talk about it, because I'm going to sit here until you do." Maman smoothed her robe around her thighs as she sat on the end of his bed.

"So we'll have insomnia together."

Maman sighed and stared at him, waiting.

"Beverly didn't want you to leave. She's a doctor. Maybe we should have listened to her."

"You have school, and I have a job to do. And this is our home now. Beverly was right that I needed to rest, and because I did, I'll have trouble sleeping tonight. Unless you wear me out by discussing what happened today."

"'Help me by helping you' isn't going to work this time. Can't I just lay here tossing and turning for a few hours?"

Maman waited some more, glanced around at the bare walls, and smiled sadly at Fidele. "You know, he came to us in the middle of a long dark time. It's sad to see him having difficulties. He's been such a help to us over the years."

"Do you think Data can fix him?"

"I know he can. I've already spoken to him. When he comes for your father's promotion ceremony he'll bring tools and parts. He said it would be best to leave him on standby until then."

"Standby? I thought you deactivated him."

"No, if his sensors detected anything he would awaken. This is not what we should talk about. You're not truly worried about him."

"Then why did you bring him into the conversation?"

"Because he reminds me that there have been worse times in our lives. Because you and your brother and sisters may think you are having difficulties you can't handle, but you're handling them, and it's not so difficult as you think."

"Not difficult? Nothing's gone right! It's been one problem after another, with Mal, with Amy's so-called friends, with the twins going from squabbling a few times a week to every day and sometimes most of the day. And we can't figure out what to do -- about school or about you, because all we can do is worry about you! And you just take us somewhere else, to France or to Tom's, and I don't see how that's done anything to help either, and you won't even consider asking for a ship of your own. I think we'd all be happier on a ship even if it wasn't _Enterprise_, and -- "

Yves lost what he was about to say, not because he sensed anything -- he was too upset to feel anything but his own anger -- but because he finally looked Maman in the eye and recognized her fury. No doubt his anger was hitting her back and feeding into hers. And that was the problem, just as it had been all day. She looked away at the door, her chin jutting slightly.

"I suppose I did demand that you talk," she said, her voice tightly controlled. "I understand the impulse to 'fix' the situation by recreating what we had aboard _Enterprise_. But this is precisely why we cannot do that. Your father refuses to repeat the mistake his own father made in narrowing your options. We can adjust to -- "

"But we were happy! And now no one is, and I'm not even sure having Papa come home will change anything -- why can't we at least talk about going back to space?"

"If you mean that you children should have a vote in what direction our careers take, I would think that should have an obvious answer. Your father doesn't make my decisions, Yves, what makes you think you or Amy or Cordelia should?" Her eyes were hard and glittering with unshed tears.

"I don't think it's fair at all! You pretend we can make all these decisions, like where to go to school, and when it's really important we have no control at all! I hate it here! I can't stop losing friends! Now no one cares at all and -- and I don't think you do either!"

He knew he'd overstepped seconds after he said it. Maman's eyes narrowed. But she said nothing at all, and eventually he couldn't take it any more and stammered an apology. It didn't help. She rose and made it out the door in three steps, sweeping it shut behind her. The lump in Yves' throat quivered and his stomach hurt. He couldn't decide what hurt more, knowing how very bad it was to let himself blurt out horrible things he knew were wrong, or not knowing how she'd react to it. Walking out without a word was not her usual method of dealing with one of her children being irrational. And then he thought of what Papa would no doubt say about this.

He threw himself against his pillow and yanked the blanket over himself. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Predictably, he couldn't sleep. Sometime around midnight he went to the kitchen for something to drink. Dinner had been Thai food Tom had brought home, and the curry wasn't settling well in Yves' stomach, especially now that dire scenarios in which Maman never spoke to him again ran through his head. On his way back with a glass of milk, he glanced out the sliding door and saw Maman in the swing, the light from the nearest window barely reaching her. She didn't look at him. Her head bowed, she kept the swing swaying with her toe.

Yves pushed the door open and made his way, despite cold feet, across the damp pavement. He reached the end of the swing and hesitated. Still, she didn't look up.

"I'm sorry, Maman," he blurted, dismayed by the tears that accompanied it. "I didn't mean -- I don't really know what I was angry about, it wasn't -- I'm sorry."

She opened her eyes, but still didn't raise her head. "Go to bed. We'll talk in the morning."

"But I can't sleep."

Maman let the blanket fall away as she stood up and crossed her arms. The expression on her face matched her icy tone. "What did I just tell you?"

Yves ran. In the darkness of his room, he stared at nothing and tried to clear his mind, but nothing helped. All the techniques and meditations he'd learned on Betazed were powerless to prevent his panicked imagination and shuddering sobs. Maman wasn't listening to an apology. Dread tied his stomach in a knot and left it that way until morning.

\-------------

"I knew you were awake."

"Because you knew I was under pressure, or because you knew I was awake?"

"What sort of pressure could you be under so close to Earth that I can sense you?"

"I have an assortment of missives from my children, painting a picture of how things have been for you . . .. Why do you look so miserable?"

"It's been difficult because we are a house of empaths who routinely get caught up in each other's momentary frustrations and amplify the problem. Yves has been so helpful to this point, I thought he'd mastered coping with other people's emotions, then yesterday was so distressing for him that he lost his temper. And I can't find the words to begin to -- I don't know what to do."

"Please don't cry when I can't reach you."

"I shouldn't have called. I should have waited. You're within hours, aren't you?"

"Just dropped to impulse inside the orbit of Neptune. We'll dock at McKinley soon, although it appears every ship in the sector is turning out to escort us, and that's slowing our progress."

"And you aren't on the bridge?"

"I had an important call come in."

"I need to go -- we're all going to meet you at McKinley."

"You're sure that's a good idea? Don't the children have to be in school in four hours?"

"I don't care. They won't care. The twins finally fell asleep a couple of hours ago because they were completely exhausted, but Amy can't seem to; she's anxious because Yves is so upset."

"I don't think you'll be able to come aboard but -- "

"We'll be there. We need to be there."

  
\-------------

Yves sat up when his bedroom door opened. Maman loomed in the dark, taking slow steps into the room. "Wash your face and put on your best slacks and shirt -- we're going to McKinley to watch the _Enterprise_ come in."

"Maman -- "

"Hurry up. We have fifteen minutes to get there. We're going by transporter."

"Maman," he called, but she hurried out and left him there. He called out for the light and hurried through the recommended tasks, fighting for space at the sink with the overexcited twins and nearly tearing his shirt while fighting it over his head. He raced to the front of the house and into the garage. Amy waited in the back seat already, wearing a bright green dress; Papa had gotten them all gifts when he came to take them back to the ship after their semester with Grandma, and that dress had been Amy's. She hardly ever wore dresses, and Yves couldn't remember her wearing the green one in a long time.

"You're as tired as I am," Amy said, sounding hoarse. "What did you say to her?"

He didn't answer, only stared at the dashboard. This newer flitter had more readouts and controls.

"I thought so. She was pretty hurt."

"Shut up!" He lunged between the front seats, ready to climb in the back, but stopped himself.

"I only wanted to know if you felt bad about it."

"Why, so you could make me feel worse?"

The driver's door opened, and Maman leaned in. "What are you doing? Get inside."

"We're transporting from here?" Amy yanked her door and sent it sliding back.

Maman shut her door and headed in the house without another word. When Yves and Amy came in, they found the twins trying not to smile at their mistake. "Come on," Maman said, gesturing them closer. She had her dress uniform on, and it looked different; the style had changed again, to black tapered pants and white jacket with departmental colors at the hems. When they were standing together she tapped her comm badge and indicated they were ready.

They materialized in an empty room that looked so much like the one on the _Enterprise _that for a moment Yves thought they were aboard, and his heart leaped. But the long viewports were providing a view of a vast space station, and a small vessel berthed below and to the right gave him a good idea of scale. He went forward, as his siblings did, and leaned to look down, up, to either side, in awe.

"I think it's time," Maman said. When they turned around, she was sitting on one of the long benches within two meters of the windows. She gestured with both hands at the bench. Amy and Cordelia sat on her left, and Yves on her right with Pierre next to him. She put her hands in her lap and stared out at the interior of McKinley Station, awash in soft blue light.

"A long time ago, there was a young woman who left her House in search of love." Yves glanced at her, startled, as did his siblings; she continued to stare out at the station, and she resumed the story when they turned back to the view. "She wasn't lonely, for she had many lovers and friends, not to mention her family, but she was lonely, for she hadn't found someone with whom to share her heart. She knew someone was missing from her life. Each time she thought she'd found that special person, something would happen to prove her wrong. So she left the House with a handful of young men who'd served her House from childhood."

"Why are you telling us about this now?" Amy asked. Maman ignored her and went on in Betazoid.

"She traveled for years and years. Gradually, she lost touch with the friends she'd had, and some of the servants she took returned to the House and their own families. One day, she walked into a town she recognized, and realized that after all her traveling she had returned to her own town, just a short distance from her House. The only servant remaining with her was an older man, who had proved to be devoted to her House and loyal to her cause. She stood in the town and recognized people she had grown up with, former friends and lovers, all having children and even grandchildren, all happy. No one recognized her. She'd changed, in so many ways -- her heart had been remade. Only she still longed to find that one person to fill that void, who would truly know her. Now no one knew her at all. She was more alone than ever."

Maman paused. Yves had stopped looking out at the empty station and couldn't tear his eyes away -- her face had lost the drawn, exhausted look she'd had for so long. Her eyes had a faraway look as if she were listening for something.

"She sent the servant ahead, to go to the House and report to her mother. But she went another way to the cliffs overlooking the ocean. She heard the call of the sea, which she'd always thought sounded like the heavy sigh of loneliness. She closed her eyes and took a breath, then stepped toward the edge, thinking about the path she had taken and feeling great sadness that it had ended in this way, with failure and loss. But she did not realize that the servant had followed her. She did not realize that because they had journeyed together, he had become so attuned to her that he knew her heart. So he caught her before she could follow the lonely path to its conclusion, and she turned around to recognize him for what she sought for so long."

Far across the interior of the station, a black line appeared, then as it became a gap more lights came on around the edges of it. As it continued to widen, the nose of a ship appeared. The doors finally reached their widest as the saucer section nosed its way halfway through. Maman stood, and Yves was torn between watched her and the immense starship approaching, looming ever larger as it drifted toward them.

"But that's a story we heard on Betazed," Jean-Pierre said. All four of them were still trying to understand why she'd told it at this point, with the _Enterprise_ slowly filling the viewport. They would have a good view of the deflector dish, as the ship seemed to also be drifting upward.

"The story of hajira, yes," Maman said absently. "It's often told, and the details are never the same twice. It's also my story -- I left the House and joined Starfleet, which became my House. But even though I spent so many years with wonderful people and found great satisfaction in my career, I couldn't stop wishing. And then my best friends were leaving, which is the way Starfleet works -- especially if you manage to become a senior officer, and then your only possible way to advance is to transfer. I was making plans to return to civilian life because I couldn't see any other way to have children. I wanted that, at least, even if I couldn't find anyone to share parenthood with."

"But then you found Papa," Cordelia exclaimed, leaping off the bench. Pierre's rising was nearly simultaneous; Amy had already joined Maman at the viewport. The ship had come to a halt, and a pod floated out to meet it with an umbilical hanging from it.

"He found me. He understood that I wasn't happy, and suspected I was planning to leave. We'd always been good friends, and I was his counselor, which meant that he'd shared some very private feelings and thoughts with me -- it took a long time for him to feel comfortable with that. He thought he could at least see what was going on and be a friend."

"And then he fell in love," Cordelia supplied cheerfully.

"No. He was already. He didn't think I would have any interest. He didn't know that a major motivating factor for my leaving was that I'd fallen for him."

"But, you sensed it. Didn't you? You sense everything!" Amy's distress echoed in Yves, and in the twins.

Maman reached for Yves, looking him in the eye for the first time since his outburst. He wasn't prepared for the smile or the joy in her eyes. "I knew your father for more than a decade -- he was my captain. He'd been in love before, many times. I was his counselor and I knew that his career was so important to him, he'd never compromised it for a relationship. He even attempted one while on the ship, with a subordinate. When confronted with the difficulties it presented, she transferred off the ship. Years after, when I found myself feeling new love and appreciation for him, I waited because I could tell he didn't feel the same. And then when he did, I was tempted to bring it up, but I still waited because I didn't know, though I suspected, that he would be willing to try. Because he didn't, I made plans to leave and became very depressed. Because he holds his friendships so dear, he approached me to be certain we were on good terms, which led to his insistence that we could work through whatever difficulties we might have. A year later we married, to the dismay of many."

"I didn't know Papa was in love with someone else," Amy whispered.

"Why are you telling us this?" Yves asked, still confused.

"Because it was never the ship at all. It's always been the people -- I grew up on Betazed, and I left as soon as I could. I wasn't happy there. And for a while, I wasn't too certain that Starfleet would work out, either, but I was on a career path and one doesn't abandon a career after spending so much time preparing for it; you have to show you can persevere. When I came aboard the _Enterprise _it took a while to feel like home. But it happened, and I wouldn't change anything. Not even the pain. We have to strike a balance between working to change our circumstance and accepting what we can't change. And sometimes the very things we think are so intolerable are what shape us and create positive change."

Maman reached up to stroke the back of Yves' head. She sighed and looked up at the bottom of the saucer section, at the name and number in letters that dwarfed a two-seat pod flying beneath them.

"Still, I loved the _Enterprise_ \-- both of them. Because it really was home."

"When is Papa coming? Are we going aboard?" Amy touched her own hair, which she'd braided and put up.

"He'll be here soon." The chirp of her communicator made her smile. "Troi here."

"Captain, I've been in contact with the _Enterprise_," said a male voice Yves didn't recognize. "Because of the media in the docking area, I'm beaming him directly over in two minutes."

"Thank you, Lieutenant. Troi out." Maman glanced around, turning and clasping her hands in front of her. "Your father already told me as much, but Lieutenant Klein doesn't know that."

"Who's he?" Pierre asked.

"He works on the station, but he served aboard the _Enterprise_ briefly."

The transporter effect began in the center of the room. Seconds later, Papa in his duty uniform stood there; he threw out his arms to catch the twins, leaning to kiss Amy's cheek and laughing as the three of them nearly knocked him over.

"Marvelous," he exclaimed. "I swear you've grown a few inches!" He stood back, looking from one grinning face to the other, and then glanced at Yves. "You don't want a hug?"

"I wanted one all to myself," Yves said, going forward to claim it. Papa took him by the shoulders and kissed each of his cheeks, just as he'd done with the others, then pulled him into a tight hug, slapping his back and letting go so he could look Yves in the eye. His joy was tinged with concern, but Papa smiled and held his gaze intently.

"I appreciated all the messages," he said, letting Jean-Pierre sidle up to him and putting a welcoming arm across Pierre's shoulders. "Although I was quite concerned by them."

"We're okay, Papa, really," Amy said. She seemed perfectly happy at the moment. Papa's gaze slid from her face to Yves'.

"It's been really hard, but I don't think it will stay that way," Yves said. "We're really glad you're here. Even if it means we'll never see the _Enterprise_ again. I think we'll feel more like we have a home now that you're with us."

Papa's smile became a grin, and the corresponding lift of his mood had them all grinning with him. "Aren't you going to hug Maman?" Cordelia said after a few minutes.

He stepped away from them, resting a hand briefly on Yves' shoulder as he passed him, and as he came around the bench Maman came to attention. Yves and his siblings watched in amazement as Papa stood with his hands tucked behind his back, just as Maman now did.

"Captain," he greeted in a cool tone.

"Captain," Maman replied. Her mouth twitched, but she kept it straight.

"I had no idea there was a dress code. I would have changed."

"And endured the tight collar?" One of their long-standing jokes; Yves doubted Papa's dress uniform could possibly be as tight as he claimed. "I thought it was appropriate, considering."

Papa's gaze traveled up and over her shoulder. She turned and stepped out of his way, and then they were shoulder to shoulder, looking out at the ship. Yves came to stand at Papa's left, putting his hands behind his back too, and Amy followed his example, then the twins. They all stood in silence, for so long that Yves glanced over, and he was surprised to see that his parents were both saluting the _Enterprise_ with glittering eyes.

When they finally relaxed and turned to each other, the atmosphere in the room felt different, as if something had happened -- but it had, Yves supposed. This was goodbye to the ship they'd shared for more than twenty years. He watched Papa take Maman's face in his hands, and turned away while they gazed at each other with their usual ardor -- a word Amy had looked up once and insisted applied to the way they got lost in each other.

"Look, there's a Defiant class!" Jean-Pierre exclaimed, leaning against the viewport. Cordelia and Amy joined him, and when Yves came over, Amy glanced at him, proving her disinterest.

"So I guess all that guilt was for nothing," she whispered. "Maman isn't angry at you."

"It doesn't look that way. But it's a special occasion, and she'll probably want to talk later."

"Are we going home now?" Cordelia asked.

"We are," Maman announced. Yves glanced at her and found his parents coming to them, holding hands. "To have breakfast, and go to school."

"Do we have to? Papa's home!" Pierre whined.

"I'd rather go to school. I think Maman should spend the day with Papa." Yves grinned. Papa sighed, but chuckled and shook his head.

In the end, it happened just that way -- after beaming back to the house, replicating a huge breakfast, and getting ready to go, Maman and Papa drove them to school. Yves and Amy stood on the sidewalk watching the flitter move away down the street.

"I think we'll be okay," Amy said. For the first time, she really believed it.

Yves turned toward the school and nearly bumped into Malcolm. "Oh, hi," he blurted automatically.

"I've been trying to call you! Come on!" Mal ran for the building. Yves exchanged a glance with Amy and ran after his friend. He caught up at the lifts and Mal talked excitedly while they waited.

"My mom wanted to know why I was angry at you, and when I told her she said you were right and we had a long talk. Where were you all weekend?"

"We went to visit Tom and Beverly. Didn't you say you didn't want to speak to me any more?"

Mal scowled. "You're way too serious for your own good, Picard. Want to go play hoverball after school? I played with Jajihal and his friends yesterday down at the public gym on Fourth. We tried to call you."

"My father's home so I should probably count on something happening tonight -- Maman was saying something about asking people over."

"That's okay. We can do it later this week. Mom wants me to have you over again, too, and she wants to call your mom and talk to her."

Stunned, Yves followed his friend into the lift. Mal seemed different -- something had shifted. Yves tried to work out whether it was his own change of mood filtering input from Mal, or something genuinely Mal's. But Mal went on and on, chattering about some new sim involving away teams and phasers, and then they were in the hall headed for class. They exchanged text messages while at their desks waiting for class to start, but once Gramere began to talk, they stopped.

In algebra and biology Yves thought it through while pretending to follow along in the text with Gramere. It made sense that Mal's general mood had shifted. Something had changed for him; his mother had been honest about her difficulties. Having a parent willing to share that way helped a lot.

It was sort of like his own situation. Yves estimated he felt about a thousand times better knowing Papa would be there when he got home. There was still the upcoming talk with Maman, no doubt about it, and it might be more stern with Papa joining her, as he likely would. But just knowing Maman wouldn't be feeling that underlying tension and loss helped.

At the end of biology, Gramere surprised Yves by asking him to stay behind as she dismissed everyone for morning break. He stayed in his seat, shrugging in response to questioning looks from Jajihal and Mal.

"I received a message from the office while you were all reading the next chapter," Gramere said, returning to her own desk. "Your father contacted the office to inform them he would pick you up at ten. He should be waiting for you in the loading zone."

"Oh. Thanks." Yves shoved his padd in his bag with his gym clothes. "See you tomorrow."

Mrs. Gramere smiled at him as he left. He hoped to see Mal on the way out of the building, but none of his friends were anywhere to be seen. He reached the loading zone and the lone flitter sitting there; as he approached the passenger door opened, and he climbed in the front with Papa.

"We're not waiting for Amy?" he asked when Papa shut the door and started the engine.

"I decided that I should spend some time with each of you one on one, and that I should start with you." Papa gestured at the console. "Where should we go?"

Yves was speechless for a moment or three. "Go?"

"Well, I suppose we could go home. But I thought there might be something you wanted to do instead."

There were lots of things he'd thought about doing, back when they'd just moved into the house and all of them were skimming through lists of museums, parks, monuments, and amusements of all kinds. Why was it so difficult to come up with any of them now? He tried to think of something Papa might like to do and was at a loss.

"We could go to Fisherman's Wharf," he said finally.

"You don't sound too sure about that."

"I'm not really sure what it will be like. I haven't been there yet. In the guides it's described as a combination of historical buildings and monuments, plus a lot of antique stores, restaurants, galleries, museums and tours. Since I can't think of anything we may as well go where there's a lot of choices."

Chuckling, Papa engaged the autopilot and selected their destination from a map. "I spent a lot of time down there as a cadet."

"So you've seen it already."

"Oh, that was decades ago -- I'm sure it's quite different now. For all the attempts we make to preserve things, change is our only constant." Papa hesitated, glancing out the window. "You've had a lot of difficulty with how our lives are changing."

"I guess."

Papa didn't say anything for a while, just watched the scenery go by as the flitter hummed along the road. Silence from him wasn't like silence from Maman. She would often talk with them about trivial things, about what everyone might like for dinner or what color some random house might look better in, or quiz them on homework. Silence from Maman meant she was either upset or very, very tired. With Papa, it meant that he simply had nothing to say.

And now that he was silent and idly looking out the window, Yves could tell Papa was quite tired. "The mission is over. Is it also classified?"

"I'm afraid so. But it wasn't so unlike other assignments." He smiled, glancing at Yves. "I missed you. And, I could have used the distraction of a good chess game."

The reminder of the long separation resulted in tightness in Yves' chest. "Why is it so difficult for Maman when you're far away?"

Papa wasn't surprised or upset by the question. He gazed out the windshield for a few minutes. "I think if we understood it, we might be able to do something about it. But I tend to think of it as the one unpleasant bit of a very good thing, and it's never been an impairment."

"But it seems so . . . painful."

"Oh, well." Papa nodded, as if responding to something he told himself -- or could he speak telepathically to Maman over such distance? "Pain is not pleasant, but it isn't the end of the world. We survived very well, did we not?"

"I asked Maman about bonds and whether I might have one, someday, and she said you weren't the only person she'd ever bonded with."

Papa tensed, and Yves sensed dismay. He glanced down at the map on the console, watching the red dot representing their flitter move up a white line that was the road. "And?"

"And . . . you knew about it."

Papa stared at him with a raised eyebrow. "How could I not?"

"Do you know who . . .." But Yves knew at once that this would be a question he could not expect an answer to, and moved on. "I guess I just can't imagine either of you with anyone else."

Papa didn't smile or respond immediately. When he did, he sounded remote. "I don't recall pointing this out to you before, but I was in Starfleet for approximately forty years before I met your mother. It would be . . . unusual, if I had never been with anyone else. And your mother had a number of relationships, at least two of which might have easily resulted in marriage."

"But they didn't." Yves thought about it. "It's weird to think about."

"I don't think about it often, either. But it isn't weird." Papa let the silence lengthen a bit longer this time. "Is there a particular reason you're asking questions about relationships? A girl, perhaps?"

"Not exactly."

The flitter slowed as it turned a corner into heavy traffic. They joined a long line of gleaming vehicles making their way down a hill toward a large parking area. Yves could see the Academy in the distance; small craft were flying in formation high above it.

"So if it's not a girl, I suppose you suddenly became curious about bonding for no reason? Or is it, perhaps, because you saw how your mother was unhappy about the separation, and you're afraid you'll go through something similar?"

"I don't know. Maybe. She wouldn't sleep, and she never seemed hungry. She didn't smile as much as -- and we all sensed the pain." Yves stopped when, from Papa, he sensed an increase in weariness. "I'm sorry."

"I know your mother has taught you that emotions shouldn't keep you from doing what's necessary. That includes talking about things like this anxiety you've developed over something we have no way of predicting. You don't know that you'll ever find a bond like the one I share with your mother -- that sort of bond is extremely rare."

"But on Betazed, they said bonds weren't so uncommon, that almost anyone has them."

Papa sighed and tapped the edge of the console with his finger thoughtfully. "I am inclined at this point to agree with your grandmother, in that we haven't done very well in raising the four of you as Betazoids. A generalization like that doesn't help. We are talking, Yves, about a specific kind of bond, an empathic bond rather than a telepathic one. It's not something that's been researched in any depth simply because there are so few empathic bonds. Specifics matter, especially when we're discussing bonding and whether it's telepathic, empathic, or simply the sort of bond anyone has with a friend. You already have bonds -- you're very sensitive to your mother, for example, and to your siblings."

"What about Tom and Beverly?"

Papa stared at him intensely for so long Yves thought he might be in trouble for something. "What about them?"

"I don't know -- I guess, because you're so comfortable with them, you and Maman. Not just comfortable. . . . I'm not sure what I'm trying to say. But it's different with them than when we're with other friends. More familiar?"

It seemed to take a while for the words to form in Papa's mouth, and he held it open for a few seconds as if trying to give them more room. "It is different."

The flitter reached the lot and continued its slow crawl around rows of vehicles, following a beacon that led it to an empty spot. As their flitter halted, the red winking light on the beacon went off and glowed solid blue. Papa said nothing further until they'd gotten out and were walking toward the pier along a paved path between rows of gleaming flitters.

"There are many, many things that must be experienced to be understood. A bond like ours is one of them." Papa had his hands in the pockets of his slacks. He looked at the ground as they went along. Other pedestrians passed them going both ways.

"So no one's going to answer my questions."

"Because there are no answers to give you. We don't know what your life will be like. When I was your age, I thought I knew exactly what I would do." A wry smile, and Papa glanced at him, shrugging. "My plans did not include you, your mother, or any sort of bond. They didn't include being stabbed, shot, assimilated, tortured, or married. And frankly, I often felt that marriage must certainly belong in the list of bad things that might happen. Most officers leave their families on their homeworld, where it's safe. They don't give their children evacuation drills, zero-g drills, or show them where the nearest life pod is."

"They put them in schools like the one we're going to," Yves put in.

"Yes, exactly. And they visit once in a while, when they can get leave. Sometimes the family manages to go out to some colony or starbase to meet them halfway. So, on the occasions that I did have a positive idea of marriage, I thought it certainly couldn't be fair -- children are a responsibility to both parents, not just one of them. And spouses have responsibilities to each other as well, which aren't served by long absence and communicating by subspace. To my way of thinking, back when I was young and cocky, combining marriage and Starfleet was a risky compromise -- one would inevitably do one or the other a great disservice."

"You didn't want to get married, ever?"

"It wasn't so much that I didn't want it -- I knew that I belonged in Starfleet. I knew I wanted command, and when I got it, I wanted to keep it. I worked my entire life to that end. Other commitments that might interfere weren't an option for me."

"So you didn't want to live on Earth at all." Yves moved toward Papa, making room for a woman pushing a cart in the other direction. "If we weren't around you wouldn't have to leave space at all."

"Don't be ridiculous. I haven't gotten to that part of the story yet, so if you would let me finish?" Papa rested a hand on Yves' shoulder briefly. "I met your mother when I came aboard the _Enterprise_ and at that point in my life, I had to make what seemed at the time to be a great adjustment -- there were children, families, aboard the ship. At first I instructed my first officer -- "

"Uncle Will," Yves supplied, familiar enough with this segment of family history.

"I told him to handle the civilian population for me. I was not comfortable with children. I thought they were messy, loud, disorderly, and had no place on a Starfleet vessel. I insisted on a clear separation from them. No children on the bridge, no exceptions."

"Except Beverly's son Wesley."

"Who's telling this story, anyway?" Papa scowled, but Yves knew he wasn't really angry, even if he weren't fighting the smile tugging at his mouth.

"Sorry."

"I also thought your mother didn't need to be there. Counseling had its uses, of course, but she didn't need to be on my ship. Besides, she reacted so emotionally to everything."

Stunned, Yves kept walking with Papa along the side of a large gray building. "You didn't want her aboard?"

"Oh, no. And I didn't make friends with my officers -- not the way I did later. There are many levels of relationship, Yves, and I was always good at the superficial sort that frequently developed between officers. I had many good working relationships but very few intimate friendships. At that time, Beverly was the only close friend I spoke to on a regular basis, and even with her it took a while to get reacquainted -- we grew apart after her husband died. Jack was my closest friend."

And Papa was still sad, thinking about it. "I don't understand. If you were so close, how did you grow apart?"

Papa ignored him and went on. "It took a few years, and a few life-changing incidents, to shift my perspective on my life's direction. Also, my opinion of your mother began to change, not that I really thought about that until later. And when I realized she was leaving, and re-evaluated, and went to talk to her . . .."

"You realized you were in love with her."

"I was terrified."

This was definitely a different version of the same old story. "Of her?"

"There will always be anxiety when you make the important decisions. Always. People don't usually wait as long as I did to decide a family is important, that a long-term committed relationship is possible. Remember, I never really thought of it as an option for me. I wasn't certain I had a chance -- I thought, even after I found that she felt the same way about me, that she might reconsider. You do realize, don't you, the difference in our ages?"

"Yeah, I remember Tom teasing you about it once."

"Oh, more than once. And there was also a part of me that doubted I would be. . . adequate."

"So you were afraid you wouldn't be a good lover?"

Papa's head came up, his eyes went wide, and he tensed from head to toe. "Not exactly." He eyed Yves, crossing his arms. "I had no practice with long term romantic relationships. I was significantly older than she, we are from quite different cultural backgrounds, and there are certain realities of biology that must be dealt with."

"And?"

They left the shadow of the building and continued along the path they were on, which ran along a stretch of rocky shoreline; a railing separated the path from a vertical drop to the large gray rocks below. Papa hesitated for a long time before answering.

"I think that more than anything else in my life at that point, I wanted to be whatever she needed."

Yves watched a seagull float by overhead. It dove and landed on a rock sticking out of the water a short distance offshore.

"I didn't have any idea what I was doing, but I knew I wanted to be with her. Hajira was unexpected. No one could have predicted it. She didn't recognize it immediately. At times we thought the bond ceased to exist, but it came back stronger."

"Were you what she needed?"

Papa gave him a look usually reserved for Pierre's crazier moments, when he found random things to say that rhymed everything everyone said. "She appears to think so."

"I mean did she think you were then. I know you are now."

"Then? She didn't know what to think, either. Did anything I said answer your question?" Papa asked, looking at the waves as he went along, hands in his pockets.

"It told me you don't have an answer, and why. I'm still not sure why you were afraid of her."

Now Papa raised an eyebrow at him. "That isn't what I said."

"Also, still not clear on the realities of biology part."

"It's very simple. The older you get, the more difficult sex gets. Right now you could probably manage quite a few erections in a row, one after the other, and you probably do, until you're sore. That will change sometime in your twenties. It will change again, gradually, as you age, and if you're not having sex often enough it will change more drastically. Eventually you'll be lucky to have a spontaneous erection once a day, then every few days, then there will be weeks--"

"Papa!"

"Don't tease me when I'm trying to have a serious conversation with you, then."

"Sorry."

Yves waited until they were about halfway to the pier and its heavy foot traffic. So far, they were the only ones on this long walkway overlooking the water. "So you don't actually have sex any more?"

Papa slowed down, glared at him, and, judging from his internal battle between shock, amusement and frustration, wasn't about to blow up. "Are you six? Because I can't think of why else you would ask such an unobservant question."

"_Je suis désolé, je ne le pensais pas_." The use of French might help alleviate some of the anger.

"Mm. You don't seem that regretful." But Papa smiled and kept walking. He obviously wasn't dwelling on the slight, as his mood shifted back to pensive and concerned.

"On the other hand, if you do have questions about sex -- "

"No."

But Papa had focus. "We've never really discussed it beyond the basic act. There's a lot more to it -- the impact it can have on a relationship, the -- "

"Maman gave me things to read. I don't want to talk about it."

Papa stopped walking. Crossing his arms again, he leaned against the railing and ignored a few gulls swooping down to look at them. "You didn't want to talk to her, either. I find that unusual."

"There's nothing to talk about. I don't have any opportunity to have it so why would I worry about it?" He was sure his face turned red, but he couldn't stop that.

"Because you're fifteen. Because you're well aware that you'd have to leave the planet to be out of your mother's range. And if I were fifteen again, and too aware of the possibility that my mother might be eavesdropping while -- well, I feel that way now, just thinking about it. So I doubt you really think about it the way you might otherwise, and I'm worried that it's going to create problems for you later. This is when you should be developing interest in that part of your life, sorting out your own sexuality, not ignoring it for later -- not dealing with your feelings now could have a significant impact on your social life."

Yves shrugged and stared at the ground.

"So your mother has decided to choose a day or two of the week and take an inhibitor, so she's no longer able to sense anything -- "

"What?" Yves flinched bodily. The initial shock lasted seconds; the dismay and disbelief that followed took longer.

Papa watched him, tight-lipped and nearly unreadable. Papa could be that way sometimes, and it only made Yves more nervous -- it meant he was putting in extra effort to control his reaction to what was being discussed, and that meant he took it very seriously.

"While it's true she prefers to be aware of your emotional state so that she can react in moments of crisis, she also has reason to believe it will be necessary to do this now. Because part of raising children is teaching them to be independent, and she is quite aware of all the ways the four of you rely on her ability to sense and react to whatever you're going through. She's decided that giving all of you privacy this way will be best in the long run."

"But she always says -- she keeps telling us that we can't turn off what we sense, that we have to learn to deal with it and now she's just going to turn herself off? What kind of an example is that? Isn't that what she always says, that I have to be an example to Amy and the twins, and now she's doing this?"

"The difference is obvious. She can in fact deal with anything that comes her way, whereas you and your siblings are not yet able to do so. Your mother has done everything in her power to provide guidance based on lessons she had to learn the hard way, often with a great deal of pain."

"No," Yves blurted. "She hates the inhibitor!"

"She finds it preferable to becoming an obstacle to your growth." Papa's eyes were sad, but his tone remained firm.

"But that's not right. She shouldn't have to do it!"

Papa studied him with half-lidded eyes, thinking. "How are you feeling about that? Angry? Nervous?"

"What if I am? She doesn't have to do it because of me. I'll be fine."

"So you say. But it isn't your decision to make, any more than it's mine. Yves, stop panicking."

"Why didn't she talk to me herself? Why are you telling me this? It's because of what I did, isn't it?" Even while he said it, he knew it wasn't true. Maman wouldn't do that. She just hadn't had an opportunity to talk to him yet.

"I'm telling you because I wanted to. She and I agreed that it would be the best course of action, but we didn't talk about which of us should tell you. I didn't think that it mattered. As for the way you spoke to your mother . . .. I don't have to tell you that I disapprove, but I'm equally certain that you have punished yourself several times over. In any case, she's going to speak with her new doctor and see about maintaining a supply of inhibitor."

"She misses the _Enterprise_. She doesn't like her job. Now she's going to medicate herself because she thinks we can't handle -- "

"Stop," Papa exclaimed, raising a finger and eyeing Yves sternly. "No hysterics. I did not say we believe you cannot handle something -- I believe the opposite, that you're far more capable of handling yourself than I was at your age. She is doing what she feels will best serve her children's future. I expect you to stop throwing tantrums and think about what she's doing -- if you are correct in your assumption that taking the inhibitor will cause her some discomfort, consider it a sacrifice made because of the love she has for her children. If, on the other hand, she simply wants some peace and quiet for once -- an option you perhaps hadn't considered -- you might reconsider your protests on the basis that you'll be doing something to help her."

"Papa," Yves said, but hadn't the words to follow. He sorted through everything that had been said, which took a bit, but Papa recrossed his arms and waited patiently. "I just didn't want her to do something like that because of my . . . my problems. I want to work things out for myself. This thing, I mean."

"And this will give you the freedom and privacy to do so. Won't it?"

"But -- but I didn't mean that. I should be able to figure out how to live my own life without expecting other people to change for my comfort. I have to, Maman says. And if she does this -- "

"Why are you arguing with me?" He didn't sound angry, merely inquisitive, and that was the biggest warning of all where Papa was concerned. It meant you were on shaky ground, and he knew exactly what to say if you continued to argue with him, and shortly you would be wishing the only two words in your vocabulary were 'yes, Papa.'

"I don't know."

Papa laughed. "Come on, Yves. Look me in the eye. The sidewalk isn't going to help you."

He obeyed as Papa put his hands on Yves' shoulders and shook him gently. "Sorry."

"You want to work it out yourself. How were you going to do that, and when? You keep insisting there is no girl. You haven't talked to me about it and you refuse to talk to your mother -- I hope you're not figuring it out based on things you learn from your friends?"

"We don't talk about that," Yves said, which wasn't true, exactly. He hadn't, but Jejihal bragged just last week about a girlfriend he had a couple of months ago.

"Young men can be liars and braggarts, when it comes to sexual exploits. I should know. I was the worst of them." Papa gripped Yves' shoulders tightly. "Requests for factual information will not go unanswered if you ask us, Yves. Remember that."

"All right," Yves said quietly.

Papa looked him in the eye. "Do you have anything to say that isn't a demand to change Maman's decision? She isn't just doing it for you, remember."

"I guess I can see why she'd think it would work, but you know Pierre's only going to get himself in trouble."

"Jean-Pierre's impulsivity isn't your worry. Besides, I thought he was getting better." Papa tucked his hands back in his pockets and started to walk again,  glancing at the water.

"He sort of is, if you don't count sneaking candy into his bag. Or the night he played games instead of doing homework."

They reached the pier proper and stopped in front of a two-story gray building on the corner. Looking up, Yves realized that it was the wax museum he had read about. "They moved this," Papa said, studying the huge red and gold marquee.

"Can we go in?"

Papa snorted. "It's your afternoon."

There was no line at the booth, but there were people inside, at the snack bar. Yves grinned at the promotional hologram hovering overhead in the lobby; it was of a man in a red coat and top hat boisterously announcing new additions to the history of the Federation exhibit.

"Do you even know what this is?" Papa asked, following Yves into the dimly-lit hall to the right.

"Wax museums were popular for a long time, from the 1700s until the Eugenics Wars. This is the only one left, other than Madam Tussaud's in London." He knew Papa would be proud that he'd researched local history.

They walked between dioramas depicting prehistoric ancestors and cousins of the human race. This exhibit wasn't as popular as the others, apparently, as they were alone most of the time. They passed the Neanderthals, _Homo erectus, Homo habilis_,  and a number of others Yves didn't know; he hardly skimmed the exhibit text after a while. Yves shared Papa's relief as they came around a corner and found themselves at the exit; after a while, all prehistoric wax dummies started to look alike.

They moved down the hall into more populated areas, pausing in a junction and moving down the Federation history exhibit. Yves waited while Papa read about the flight of the _Phoenix_.

"Does it look like him?" Yves pointed at Zefram Cochrane.

"No. I can't really say it looks like anything other than a wax dummy, actually. Zefram was taller and not as well dressed."

"But it's an okay picture of the _Phoenix_?"

Papa squinted at the backdrop. "I don't know where they found the image, but this is a different model. Similar design, but probably a later version."

The other wax figures didn't look like who they were meant to be, either, and the further along in history they went, the more disdainful Papa became. It became more crowded, so when they were standing in front of the diorama representing the first Babel conference, Yves had to practically bump up against Papa to stay with him, as a large group of kids had entered the wide hall. They moved past the first Klingon-Federation peace treaty, a display of members of the core worlds of the Federation, and an assortment of other ill-treated events enacted in wax against two-dimensional backdrops.

Then they, along with the group of kids, several couples, and one large man with the sniffles, reached the last exhibit on the right. Papa's sudden halt nearly resulted in a pileup of ten-year-olds. He darted for the exit while the kids were still complaining. Yves stared at the wax figures of his father and mother, hardly recognizing either -- it was mainly the baldness and the nose, and her eyes and hair, that made them identifiable. Also the presence of a taller man in commander's uniform -- that would be Will Riker, judging from the beard, though it was too long. And the redhead who looked more like Data must be Beverly, and the yellow-eyed smiling man with the pasty complexion must be Data. The Klingon had to be Worf, though they'd made him smiling and put extra ridges on his forehead and left off the sash he'd always worn in the pictures Yves had seen of the time period the museum claimed to depict. This was the senior officers from the 1701-D, toward the end of the ten year mission, judging from the three pips on Maman's collar.

Yves pushed through the swinging door into the hallway, blinking in the full light, and peeked out the prominently-labeled exit when Papa was nowhere nearby. Sure enough, Papa had left the building. He stood several meters to the right on the narrow boarded walkway along the back of the museum, overlooking rocks and water. When Yves went to lean on the rail with him, he saw that there were seals circling just offshore, diving and resurfacing.

"It didn't really look like you." Then, when Papa didn't answer, Yves added, "I didn't know it was there. I would have suggested the maritime museum, if -- "

"Of course you didn't know. I merely didn't want to cause a scene. I'm not angry at you."

"But you're angry at something."

"It was a reminder, that's all. There will be a lot of publicity over the next few weeks. Starfleet has, of late, created recruitment hype wherever possible. I'm afraid that includes using my promotion as a news item to attract attention. My career will be romanticized and mythologized to the point of becoming as unrecognizable as those wax dummies."

"You and Maman did incredible things, though."

Papa jerked away from the rail as if he wanted to pace around madly, but there was nowhere to pace; glancing back and forth, he headed away from the exit. Yves followed him. They strolled along the water's edge on the elevated path, heading for the pier itself.

"We did incredible things," Papa said at last. "We did our jobs. Do you remember when your mother was promoted? The exact moment she was given her fourth pip?"

"No. We weren't there. I assumed she'd have some sort of formal ceremony when you got here, maybe when you had yours?"

"That won't happen. I tried to convince them to do it -- they made excuses, said she'd already been promoted and besides the schedule had already been planned out."

"They don't want her to have a ceremony?"

"Oh, no, they'll give her one, if I make enough noise. The coverage won't be the same, but she's not as marketable -- I suspect they don't want to encourage fraternization, don't want to remind people that we're married. Seeing the two of us receiving a promotion at the same time is a little much. They don't want the perception that they encourage such relationships." Papa's anger took on a bitter tone.

"But if we all come to your ceremony won't they see that anyway?"

"Of course, but I'm sure the footage they actually transmit will be carefully edited to minimize . . .." Papa stopped walking and put his hand on his head. "Merde. What genius!"

"What?"

"I think that we will show the world we are a close family. How would you like to help me write my remarks?"

"If you really want -- I don't know what help I would be."

Papa squeezed Yves' arm, grinning. "You've already been a help. I don't know why I didn't think of it -- they can't cut out my family if that's what my speech is about."

"Oh." Yves grinned, too. "I think Maman should help, too."

"You don't think we should surprise her?"

"Is that possible?"

"Good point."

\---------------

_Dear Rebecca,_

I'm really glad you sent me a message -- I was worried you wouldn't forgive me, and I'd never hear from you again.

I'm sorry to hear about your grandfather. I hope he's doing better.

School's getting easier. I have a few more friends. Papa's here finally, and things are so much better with him around -- I probably didn't mention how my mother missed him and how it had an effect on the whole family, but I guess I didn't realize just how different things were without him. He's having all of us help him write his speech for his promotion ceremony, and it's hard because we keep coming up with suggestions but he wants to make it short and pointed.

I want to apologize again -- I know you said I don't have to, but I still feel badly that I acted the way I did. There's more to say, but it can wait until we can talk about it. Let me know when you're back in town, okay?

Yves

\----------------

Yves kicked the ground again and did another equation while the swing was in motion. He'd made a game of seeing if he could finish before the swing stopped, and so far he'd beaten it every time. The lights in the garden were all on, and even though night had fallen, he could see well enough without turning up the padd's illumination.

Maman caught the swing long enough to sit in it, then shoved the ground with her foot. Startled, he nearly dropped his padd. She kicked her feet, her long billowing skirt flowing back and forth as they swung.

"Almost finished with geometry. I have some literature homework, still."

"That isn't why I'm here. I wanted to talk to you about our little spat."

This was the conversation he'd been dreading. He'd managed not to think about it much in the past few hours since he and Papa had come home for dinner, but then, everyone had been busy -- doing homework, helping Papa with his speech, and generally coming back to life; the twins wanted a membership at the local public gymnasium so they could practice springball more often, and Amy had started her inevitable campaign to have friends over. She'd obviously mended fences, or found new friends.

"Okay." Yves stared at the ground, ignoring the padd in his lap. Watching the ground for too long meant motion sickness, though, so he closed his eyes.

"Your father said you weren't in a mood to talk, so I'll be brief. I understand how you felt, and I accept your apology. I hope that it won't happen again."

"It won't," Yves murmured.

"Are you angry at me?"

He had to think about it, because he hadn't had the time -- after the wax museum he and Papa had toured the pier, the shops, and the maritime museum, and then come home with Thai takeout to the twins and their high-pitched excitement, plus Amy's energetic monologue regarding the small size of her room that she might fit one other person into, if she were lucky.

"You said we could at least give input into decisions -- that we'd talk about things that affect all of us."

Maman sighed and let the swing's movement dwindle to a slow swaying before she replied. "I did say that. I also said that your father and I have a responsibility to make the final decision, especially in things that directly affect your well-being."

"What if we don't want to be the reason you do something you don't want to do?"

Another sigh, but Maman said nothing. Yves looked up at her finally. She was watching him thoughtfully, with a curious little smile; Yves couldn't tell what she was feeling. As he sat up straight, alarmed, she scooted closer to him and laid her hand on the crown of his head.

"I turned on the generator. We're sitting in the field. This is what the inhibitor is like for me, most of the time. If I take it day after day, which I have had occasion to do in the past, it will give me headaches. Would you like to know what the doctor said?"

"Yes."

"I saw Dr. Nar, a well-known specialist here on Earth who has focused on telepaths and issues specific to them. He will be working with me to discover the minimal dose necessary to restrict my empathy without completely disabling it. We'll be working on diminishing range rather than turning it off." Maman put her hands in her lap and watched Cordelia's red bird move in the slight breeze; it hung on a low branch overhead. "Dr. Nar said that if I limit my use of the inhibitor to once a week, it shouldn't have any deleterious aftereffects. Does that change your opinion?"

"I guess."

"I also wanted to ask if you enjoyed your time with Papa today."

Yves grinned. "Oh, yeah. We went to the museums down at Pier 39. Did you know you're in one of them?"

"He did mention a wax dummy of me. Though he said it had my hair before I brushed it in the morning, and that it was the most tanned he'd ever seen me."

"And Worf was smiling!"

"Oh, no!" She laughed with him about it easily. "And I suppose Beverly's hair was too red?"

"And she looked more like Data than Data did. I really liked the maritime museum better -- have you ever been on a boat? Papa said he'd like to try sailing."

"Maybe after we're finally settled in. I feel like we might have a chance at doing that, now." Maman glanced up at the stars. "Even if I still miss it."

"Did you start the generator because of Papa? Maybe we should go to Tom's."

"I knew you would say that. And, I'm prepared to ease your mind about the possibility of sensing your parents having sex. I brought home inhibitor in the doctor's suggested dosages for you and your siblings. I thought it might be helpful to acquaint you with what it's like -- you may at some point want to resort to it yourselves. It's a very small amount that should last about an hour or so."

"Only an hour?"

Maman stared at him. "I think that your father may have exaggerated in telling me the two of you had a conversation about the realities of sexual intercourse."

"He did say men are liars and braggarts, when it comes to sex. I know it's not as easy when you're older."

"Hm. Perhaps we should be putting off your injections for later." She rose, setting the swing in motion as a result. "Finish your homework. When you come in, we'll get everyone together for a discussion."

Yves grinned and turned his attention to the last equation as she went inside. He wouldn't be able to get away with the misquoting and misdirection again, he suspected, but it was fun while it lasted.

Which, it turned out, was no time at all. He went inside after finishing his geometry, deciding literature could wait for the weekend. Papa and Maman were sitting together at the dining room table, facing each other with serious expressions on their faces.

"I suppose we could," Papa said.

Yves latched the sliding door with an audible click, expecting them to react to his presence, but neither of them seemed to notice him.

"We could ask Beverly."

"Ask her what?" Yves asked.

"She is a doctor," Papa said agreeably. "Anything he would get from her would indeed be factual. And she isn't a parent. He seems unable to talk to us about it."

"The problem is, the responsibility is really ours. It feels like we've failed somehow to ask her to do it." Maman sighed heavily and bowed her head.

Papa glanced at him, finally, but continued to speak to Maman. "It's not a failure to get help, is it?"

Yves rolled his eyes. "This isn't funny. You don't have to pretend I'm not here -- you could just say you're worried instead of . . . ."

Both his parents sat back in their chairs and stared at him evenly.

"Oh." Yves shrugged uncomfortably. "Um. I guess that's what you've been doing."

"Should we take you seriously in your persistent ignorance?" Papa asked.

"No. I guess the joke didn't work, did it?"

"It's quite difficult to take you seriously when you're struggling not to grin like an imp," Maman said, smiling now. "Keeping a straight face takes practice."

"I thought I'd manage it when you couldn't sense anything. I'll try again on your inhibitor days."

At that, Papa smiled. "You do that. I'm sure your mother has a lot to teach you about jokes and pranks."

"Go get your brother and sisters. We'll have that conversation now." Maman glanced at the hypospray on the table.

"I'm glad, because if Papa's already torn the combs out of your hair -- "

"Go!" Papa exclaimed. Yves ran, glancing over his shoulder once before rounding the corner into the hall and noting that Maman was putting her hair back up.

  
\-------------

_Cygne,_

I will meet you at the auditorium an hour before the ceremony. I have an errand to run.

There's something in the top drawer for you. Don't forget to wear it.

JL

\-------------

  
Yves sat outside on the front steps, taking deep breaths. The moon rose slowly over the rooftops of his neighborhood. All was quiet, other than the muted laughter from the house behind him.

The front door opened and shut, and Jean-Pierre sat next to him, nudging him over to make room. "Maman said you needed this."

Yves took the hypospray from his brother. "Thanks."

"I had some, too."

"Which is why you don't have a headache. You took it before the party started, didn't you?"

Pierre shrugged. The nozzle of the hypo felt cold against his neck, as cold as if it'd been in the freezer, and the wash of the medication was almost instantaneous; his head pain went out like air from an airlock, followed by the clamor of the emotions of others. Yves sighed, dropped the hypo on the walk, and leaned back on his elbows, tipping his head back and closing his eyes.

"I guess we get used to it someday," he murmured. "Maman doesn't seem to mind all this."

"She said the ceremony was a little much for her, too," Pierre commented. "There were more than a thousand people."

"We're going to hear about it at school. A lot of those people were pretty surprised by Papa's speech. Shocking things end up on the news channels."

"That's what Will was saying. He said he thought it would be the least likely public relations tool ever."

"What do you think about Will?" Their 'uncle' had arrived that morning, apparently, and rather than the ubiquitous good cheer all other family friends had displayed, he'd been pleasant and thoughtful but hardly happy.

"He's okay. I like Tom better."

Pierre didn't respond. They stared up at the night sky, and Yves counted faint stars. When the door opened again, both of them looked.

"What's up?" Yves asked as Amy joined them, nudging her feet between them and sitting on the top step.

"They're talking in code again. I figured it was time to get out."

"I don't think it's code. They just refer to things we weren't ever told about." Yves sighed. "That's the funny thing -- we've been told about so much but I don't know if we've ever been told the whole story."

"It's almost midnight. You'd think they would run out of stories."

"As Papa reminded me, he's been in Starfleet a long time, 'Mia." Yves smiled. "Did you hear what Data said about the first time he met Will?"

"Something about teaching him to whistle? I didn't get it."

"And Papa teased Will about someone named Minuet. I didn't get that either," Pierre said.

"He wasn't really happy about that whole series of reminders," Yves said. "All those girlfriends. Well, maybe they weren't so much that -- what was it Maman said? Encounters."

"I just wish they'd all go home." Amy leaned forward, her hair falling down to tickle the top of Yves' ear. She sat up again when he swatted at it.

"You could always go to bed." Another burst of loud laughter from inside answered the suggestion too well. "Only to stay awake listening to the party."

"I asked Papa why our crew aren't here," she said. "Like deLio and Dr. Mengis. He said they'd be here tomorrow."

"I guess we couldn't fit everyone in the house, anyway. deRon and zeMel would be bouncing off the walls, too." Pierre stared across the street. "If the kids are invited."

"Why wouldn't they be? John Riker's here tonight."

Amy snorted. "John Riker thinks he's an adult already. I think you're more of an adult than he is. You should see him, sitting there acting like he knows everything about everyone in the room."

"Another reason to be out here," Pierre said. "He tried to tell me he knows how to navigate a starship."

"Yves knows how," Amy said. "We've all been in Natalia's simulations. I've almost got the sensors figured out."

"Yeah, but John acts like he's the only one in the galaxy who can."

Yves rolled his eyes. "We need to go back in now. Maman's going to come looking for us."

They were as Yves had left them, gathered around the table with empty glasses and plates gathered in clusters before them, some in uniform, some not. Tom never seemed to sit down. As usual, he lounged around and leaned against the wall rather than joining his friends. Beverly sat with Maman and looked quite comfortable; to her right, along their side of the table, sat Geordi, Data, Worf and Alexander, the two Klingons taking up most of the space. At the far end sat Papa, with the repaired Fidele at his side. John and Will were closest to Papa, with empty chairs to their left. Yves took one of them, two chairs away from Will. Pierre wandered into the kitchen, and Amy came up behind Maman.

"Cordelia went to bed," Maman commented. "I thought you had, as well."

"You took inhibitor, didn't you?"

Maman smiled, but seemed tired. "No, I haven't. Is your head feeling better?"

"Yes. Thanks."

"So you're feeling okay?" John asked, sounding too innocent. He'd been teasing Yves and his siblings on and off all evening. Blond, blue-eyed, and quick to smile, John had initially gotten Amy's attention; they hadn't seen the Rikers in four years, due to a lengthy deep space mission, and he'd changed a lot. But it became clearer with every interaction that John didn't really feel as friendly as he was acting. Yves suspected John would be laughing at them after he and his father left.

"I feel fine. How about you? Isn't this past your bedtime?"

Yves noted that Will's smile vanished, and Papa raised an eyebrow at him. John smirked and slumped lower in his chair.

"It is quite late," Worf announced, taking it all seriously. "We are imposing."

And that was the beginning of the dispersal. Alexander hugged Maman; the younger Klingon had been the least frequent visitor over the years, but seemed to love her with uncomplicated devotion. Worf's response to all of them was more complicated, fond but anxious and with reservation. He respected Papa to the point of awe, shaking hands and gruffly asserted that they would be on Earth for several weeks visiting his parents and would surely see Papa and Maman again. Will suggested they all meet in a particular restaurant. Beverly and Tom merely exchanged a look and said their brief farewells as they headed out.

Yves went to the door with them, while the others were still arranging meetings. "Can I come stay with you?"

Tom responded with a blink rather than a more characteristic expression of surprise. "Now?"

"No, next week. If I can get permission."

Beverly's delighted smile surprised him. "Is this just a friendly visit, or is there some other incentive?"

"Both?"

Tom laughed and leaned toward Beverly as he swung an arm across her shoulders. "Getting tired of living with your family already?"

"Not exactly. I have a friend -- she's in Seattle -- "

"Oh_, she_ lives in Seattle," Tom exclaimed. Beverly's brief glare kept him from saying anything further.

"Anyway, if I get permission?"

"If your parents agree," Beverly said. "You're always welcome, Yves."

"Thanks."

"What's her name?"

Since it was Beverly asking, and not Tom with his grin and his laughing bright blue eyes, Yves said, "Rebecca. She left school a few weeks ago to go see her grandfather. He's very ill."

"Oh, how sad. Well, you work it out with your parents and let me know," Beverly said. She kissed Yves on the cheek and sailed out the door.

"See you next week." Tom hesitated, about to say something more, but Worf and his son were on their way out as well.

When everyone was gone, even John who smirked at Yves on his way out, Papa dropped his arm across Yves' shoulders and nudged him toward his room. "You have a problem with John?"

"Not really. He's irritating, if you ask me, or Pierre, or Amy. But he's not going to be around much. Is he?"

"I suppose it's to be expected, what with his being gone for so long." Papa stopped outside Yves' door and let his arm drop. "But he'll be going to school here in San Francisco, so you'll have an opportunity to make friends again."

"Is he going to my school?"

"I believe your anxiety is unwarranted, as he mentioned a preparatory school."

"Oh."

"The L'norim, on the other hand, are more interested in maintaining relationships than in careers. All four of them have informed me that they intend to enroll the children in whatever school you are attending."

"Oh!" Yves' head swam. The four L'norim kids had at times been irritating and even infuriating, but as they aged and matured they had been Yves' best friends, other than Isha. They were actually closer to Pierre's and Cordelia's age, but they'd been in Yves' class -- which had also included a Sulamid, a Vulcan, and a variety of other kids with non-human parentage. The thought of the varicolored L'norim in his class at Mercy Hills made him anxious, though not so much as the thought of John being there.

"What did you think they would want to do?"

"I know, Papa. I guess I've been thinking about other things. . . when are they starting?"

"Next week. I believe the family is leasing a house not far from here."

"Okay." Yves yawned, covering his mouth. "Good night."

"What were you discussing with Tom and Beverly?"

"Uh." Yves backed into the edge of his door, caught off guard. "I was going to ask in the morning -- I was hoping I could visit them for a couple of days next week."

"I see." The hallway suddenly seemed too narrow. Papa crossed his arms and looked thoughtful. "I find that an odd request, considering all the changes we're going through, and your schoolwork."

"The girl who got mad at me, Rebecca, has been staying in Seattle. I want to find her."

Papa stared at him. The inhibitor wasn't doing him any favors at the moment; he would have preferred to know what was going on behind Papa's 'thinking face.' "I agree with you. Morning would be better for this discussion," Papa said at last. "Good night."

Yves got ready for bed, afraid that he wouldn't be able to sleep, but the minute he put his head on the pillow he dropped off, waking only when Amy began yelling at Pierre to get out of the bathroom.

\------------------------

_Mother,_

I am attaching a copy of the ceremony. It's unfortunate that you were unable to be there. I hope you enjoyed the Festival of Flowers.

Also, I am sending recent shots of the children -- they are all adjusting to their new schools, and making friends locally. We plan to take advantage of the holiday season to visit Betazed this year and spend the four weeks of the school break with you.

I realize that you had hopes that we would change our minds and settle on Betazed, but it's equally important for them to understand their human heritage as well.  


_I was going to chide you for your tone in your congratulatory message to Jean-Luc, but I have the feeling you know well enough my reaction -- we've played this game many times already. I would hope that by now we would have gotten past the petty sniping, but I suppose the Terran saying holds true. Some things will never change._

Love,  
Deanna

\----------------------

It took four days for deRon, deRia, zeMel and Keph to arrive. When the classroom door opened, Yves looked up from a long algebraic equation to see his father, wearing his new admiral's uniform, followed by a long line of L'norim. Even though he knew it would happen, it took a lot of effort to manage not to jump up from his seat. None of the L'norim wore clothes, except for deLio, who came in last; the promotion to commander had come with his assignment to Papa's staff.

A ripple of excitement passed through the classroom; murmuring and shifting in chairs, his classmates looked at each other, at the teacher, at the newcomers--four adult L'norim accompanied by four half-sized copies of them, in their mostly-human classroom, was an unparalleled surprise.

Papa spoke with Gramere quietly while the buzz of whispered conversation went on. Jajihal leaned across and poked Yves' elbow. "Anyone you know?"

"Actually, that's my father and some of his former crew," Yves mumbled, watching the L'norim children sniffing the air. zeMel broke away from the group first, clearing a desk and several meters of distance to land next to Yves' desk. The room fell silent.

"Walking is preferred," Yves said.

zeMel cringed. It took a long time to get used to the body language of the L'norim; the adults were more subtle, but the kids frequently reacted dramatically to even small stimuli. Ze recovered and looked around, obviously curious. "So many people," she observed in her high-pitched querulous voice.

"They've probably never seen a L'norim child before," Yves said. All four of them were six years younger than probably anyone in the class, but like many not-human species, some things developed quicker for them. Yves had deRon help him with math, sometimes. "Sit at the desk. We don't have assigned seating here, because the desk will work from your handprint and give you your own work." He tapped on the back of the empty seat in front of him.

zeMel squirmed into the chair, made for a humanoid twice her size, and put her hand in the outline of a human hand. The desk lit up and displayed the week's assignments. While she stared and Yves gave her a guided tour, pointing over her shoulder, the other three L'norim walked over to observe.

As he finished Papa approached. "Mrs. Gramere agrees that you should continue to help them adjust to the classroom."

"Yeah, I figured. They'll be okay," he said, despite deRia's semi-inflated cheek pouches that gave away his anxiety. "It's not like anyone's going to bite them." Hyperbole, but also a reference to an unfortunate incident in the _Enterprise_ school when one of the five-year-olds had bitten deRon on the arm. Sickbay had been busy that afternoon. It had been the last time the L'norim had gone to the school for a year, at which point their parents had decided they showed enough self control to try again.

Papa smiled faintly at Yves and glanced from one little L'norim to the other. "Obey your teacher and pay attention. We'll see you after school. Stay with Yves if you're not sure where to go." He turned and rejoined the adults at the front of the room.

"I bet they'd be good at basketball," Jajihal said.

Yves grinned at the confused looks from the L'norim. "He's right, you'll like it. It's not as good as springball, but it's fun."

The new kids remained everyone's focus even after their parents left with Papa, which was obvious in Gramere's attempts to hold the collective attention of the class. Finally she called on deRon and requested the answer to the question, 'what do we celebrate on Federation Day.'

deRon's cheek sacs inflated, then, to Yves' relief, deflated slowly. "We celebrate the founding of the United Federation of Planets, which happened in 2161."

"Good. Can you tell me who spoke at the founding ceremony in 2161?"

"Captain Jonathan Archer." deRon glanced at Yves as if needing reassurance. Yves nodded and smiled.

Gramere continued, beginning another question, but the even tones signaling the first break interrupted her.

Once outside, Yves, with the four L'norim huddled around him and overwhelmed to speechlessness, handled questions from all sorts of people. There were plenty of non-human students at Mercy Hills, but no other L'norim.

They made it to lunch somehow. As he and Mal and Jajihal escorted the L'norim to the cafeteria, Yves happened to glance up and spot a familiar face. He froze in place for a few moments. Rebecca stood in a doorway, shoulders hunched and looking lost.

"Look, guys, there's Rebecca," Yves exclaimed. At the sound of her name, she raised her head, met his eyes, and smiled.

"Who is Rebecca?" zeMel asked.

"A friend. Let's go." The four of them, as always accepting whatever he said without question, changed direction with him, and Mal and Jajihal trailed after as they crossed to the other side of the corridor through all the other students headed for the cafeteria.

"Hi," Rebecca murmured.

Jajihal and Mal exchanged a glance. "Hi," Mal said.

"Going to lunch?" Yves asked. "Come on."

Rebecca looked around nervously and finally left the doorway. deRon introduced himself and his siblings in the usual matter-of-fact manner of a L'norim, and by the time they reached the line at the cafeteria door, all four were answering Rebecca's questions, which, unlike those of other kids, were more friendly and less intrusive.

Amy arrived as the line advanced several feet. "I see everyone made it," she commented, then noticed Rebecca; Yves sensed the jolt of surprise and her happiness.

"Yes, everyone made it," Yves replied. "And I think everything's going to be fine."

\--------------

_To Whom It May Concern:_

I am writing on behalf of Yves Picard, a fine young man with a great deal of promise. I do not issue recommendations lightly. I feel, however, that Yves is destined to excel at any endeavor he takes up, and that he will make an excellent Starfleet captain one day. He has already shown qualities that are necessary for leadership in space. His grades no doubt speak for his intellectual ability, but I would add that he has a sense of responsibility rarely displayed in one so young, and a sense of compassion many lack.

I urge you to consider him for admission to Starfleet Academy.

Sincerely,

Kathryn Janeway

  
_________

_Yves,_

Here is a copy of the letter. I'm glad to hear you're doing well and that life on Earth has been good to you. We frequently visit my sister. The next time we do, we'll make a stop by the Academy. I'm sure you'll be there.

Happy 16th birthday, by the way.

Thank you for the pictures. You and Rebecca look happy together. Is that hat really Amy's idea, or did someone play a practical joke on her? Tell Fidele 'good dog' and greet your parents for me. Life dirtside looks like it's treating them well.

Kathryn


End file.
